by Debbie Rix
For Aurelia the situation was almost intolerable. She found herself hiding in her room whenever Gerardo visited, often lying on her bed, her hands covering her ears, for fear of what she might hear coming from Berta’s private chamber. Her mistress’s pregnancy was a visible sign of Gerardo and Berta’s relationship, and it was as much as she could do to perform her duties, laying out Berta’s clothes, styling her hair, tidying her chamber. She began to spend more and more time helping Maria in the kitchen. The old housekeeper was grateful for her help, being without kitchen maids in the new apartment, but she was mindful too of the young girl’s distress.
‘Roll this dough for me, Aurelia – there’s a good girl. You have lovely cool hands and you’re getting quite a talent in the kitchen. You’ll make some young man a happy groom one day, you mark my words.’ But her kind encouragement only served to aggravate Aurelia’s despair and, often as not, she ended up with the young girl sobbing over her duties in the basement kitchen.
Berta chose not to notice nor even acknowledge Aurelia’s distress. She was truly happy for perhaps the first time in her life, and refused to let her maid’s jealousy spoil her joy. In ignorance of Gerardo’s true feelings for her maid, she had no reason to fear that his loyalty was divided, for he, of course, never told her of his love for Aurelia. His sense of duty to Berta had won the day, and believing himself the possible father of her child, he was unable to shatter her illusion that he loved her truly and completely. Instead he had resolved, however much it might hurt Aurelia, to throw himself completely into his relationship with Berta. He was deeply conflicted about this of course, and felt guilty when he caught sight of Aurelia at Berta’s apartment. In fact, the time came when he began to hope that she might be out when he arrived, or in the kitchens helping Maria and consequently out of earshot. He left the apartment each morning very early to travel to the site at San Nicola, and thus avoided any encounter, but in the evenings, when he arrived to have supper with Berta, he often caught sight of her tear-stained face disappearing into her room, and this caused him terrible distress. His love for Aurelia had not evaporated – rather it had been suppressed, like a underground spring, that he had to deal with at the site. He knoew it could be diverted but then it would bubble up a few feet away. And his feelings for Aurelia were no different. They might be repressed now, but when and where they would reappear was a question for which he had, as yet, no answer.
Berta for her part relished his company, free of any guilt about Lorenzo. As the days shortened and the weather grew colder, in the evenings Berta would sit on the loggia gazing at the Piazza, wrapped in a fur blanket… until Maria or Massoud urged her indoors, for the sake of the child and her health.
But one day, towards the end of November, Berta began to bleed – a small patch of blood soaking into her skirt. She called for Aurelia, who, running into her room, was shocked to see Berta trying to lift her dress over her head, her underskirt covered in blood. Berta, endeavouring to remain calm, lay on her bed and asked Aurelia to fetch her mother. When Violetta arrived, she was alarmed to find the bed soaked in blood and Berta faint and weak. Sheets were changed and the patient was made comfortable, but she had a nagging pain in her lower abdomen. Violetta felt Berta’s stomach.
‘Signora, I fear this is not a job for me. You should be seen by a doctor.’
‘But surely we should send for a midwife? A doctor won’t come out to a pregnant woman.’
‘It is your choice, signora, but I think a doctor would be best.’
The doctor arrived later that evening. He was a tall, laconic man – bearded, with grey hair and a greyer face. He was shown into Berta’s bedchamber while Massoud and Violetta stood anxiously outside waiting to hear the news. The doctor emerged at last, wiping his hands on a piece of linen cloth.
‘I fear the lady has a growth. There has clearly been some disturbance or damage to her uterus… that is the usual reason. I understand she believes herself to be pregnant. I fear that is most unlikely. From what I can see there is no child.’
Visibly shocked, Massoud asked, ‘What is to be done?’
‘Very little I fear. Your friend here – you are an apothecary, I believe – can administer a poultice two or three times a day to relieve the pain, but the outcome is not at question. In my opinion, your mistress will die… probably within a few weeks, or months at most.’
And proffering no words of comfort, he collected his cloak, and was gone.
Berta lay propped up on pillows. The bleeding had slowed a little, but she was very pale, her skin almost translucent in the candlelight. Violetta busied herself making a tisane of chaste berries, a traditional remedy for menstrual conditions.
‘Violetta… the doctor… he spoke to you?’
‘Yes, signora.’
‘Well… tell me… what did he say? He was such a horrid little man, I could not get a word out of him.’
‘He fears you may have lost the child, signora.’
Berta looked out of the window. ‘Is that what he said?’
‘Well he said that you were not with child.’
‘I see.’
Berta lay still. ‘So why is my belly so swollen, Violetta. Please… tell me that. Did he say? I need to know.’
‘You have a growth, lady. It is causing the bleeding, I think.’
‘A growth. So there is no child then?’
Berta smiled – a wry, small smile.
‘No, signora… no child.’
She sank back on her pillows, her fingers resting lightly on her belly. It was a position she had often adopted in the previous weeks, as if her hands could in some way touch the child that lay sleeping inside.
‘I must have sinned terribly, don’t you think… for God to punish me so.’
‘Oh signora, do not say such a thing.’
‘Well, it is God’s will if a woman is to carry a child. Isn’t that what they say? And if she cannot, that is God’s will too, surely? And why would he not allow me to have a child, Violetta? I can only think it is because I have sinned, in my heart.’
A tear began to snake its way down her pale cheek.
‘It is not God’s will. I do not believe that,’ said Violetta firmly.
‘And will I die, did he think?’
At this, Violetta’s eyes filled with tears.
‘I see that I will. Will it be soon?’
‘I do not know, signora. It is impossible to say.
‘I see, well then I am no different from any other woman.’ Berta’s voice began to break, ‘I shall die, and we do not know when.’
Finally, her composure gave way and she wept. ‘Oh Violetta, is there nothing to be done? No treatment he can give me?’
‘Nothing, signora. But I will be here, and will help you all I can.’
Berta wiped her eyes on the edge of her nightgown’s sleeve, and held out her hand to Violetta.
‘You have been a good friend to me, Violetta. You have given me so much and I have taken so much from you.’
‘No, signora, you have given so much to me. You gave Aurelia work in your home, you have recommended friends to seek counsel with me. I am grateful to you for all that you have done.’
‘Good, good. Well I am glad. But there is something else that I need you to do for me. Please send word to Gerardo… that I need to see him.’
* * *
The bells were tolling the evening Angelus when Massoud knocked on Gerardo’s door. It was opened by the page, Antonio.
‘Is your master at home?’ Massoud asked.
‘He is upstairs, signore.’
Massoud found Gerardo sitting quietly by the fire, a jug of wine on the table at his side. He was reading by the light of a solitary candle but leapt to his feet as the Moor appeared.
‘Massoud, how good to see you. May I offer you some wine?’
‘No, no thank you, signore. I come with bad news.’
Gerardo gestured to Massoud to sit.
‘It is my mistress…’ Unable to co
mplete the sentence, he broke down, sobbing like a small child.
Gerardo came to his side. He put his arm around the Arab’s heaving shoulders. ‘Massoud, Massoud what is the matter? What is wrong?’
‘She bleeds, signore. The child is gone. She has a sickness; the doctor says it is very bad… that she will not survive.’
‘I will go to her,’ Gerardo said.
Together the two men ran through the streets towards the Piazza. Arriving out of breath, Gerardo ran up the stairs to Berta’s bedchamber. She looked tiny and frail, he thought, lying on the large bed. A lone candle flickered next to her, illuminating her hair, which fell like a red river around her shoulders. Her green eyes sparkled in her pale face.
‘Gerardo, carissimo, you have come. I am so glad.’
Gerardo knelt beside Berta’s bed and took her hands in his. ‘Of course I have come. Massoud told me; what is to be done, Berta?’
‘Nothing is to be done, darling; there is nothing to do. I am unwell, there is no child, perhaps there never was any child. And at some point I will die. That is all.’
‘All! What do you mean that is all? How can you be so calm? Surely there is some treatment that can help you?’
‘There is no cure, I believe… But do not weep, Gerardo.’
He lay his head on her breast inhaling the scent of lavender.
‘I am not yet finished, Gerardo,’ she said, stroking his dark hair. ‘Look at me, darling – please. There is still something very important that I want to do before I die… something that matters to me more than anything else, more even than my love for you, my darling. I have a dream… that the people of Pisa will have a beautiful campanile built on the Piazza. I have some money kept safely aside that I have offered to the Operaio, to get the tower started. As you probably know, Deotisalvi has won the design contract for the tower, and I would hope that you will be asked to assist him. To have you working with him on so prestigious a building, Gerardo, would make me very happy. We may not have had a child together, but to share in the creation of a tower would be the most wonderful legacy, do you not think? Maybe better even than a child? To leave to the world the most beautiful campanile that was ever built.’
‘It would indeed be a wonderful thing,’ he said, swallowing back his tears.
‘Good,’ replied Berta,’ we are agreed then.’
The household had been in disarray since the discovery of Berta’s illness. Massoud sat inconsolably at the kitchen table, as Maria tried to encourage him to eat her simple supper of roast partridge.
‘You must eat, Massoud – you starving yourself to death won’t help her now.’
‘I cannot eat,’ he declared wretchedly. ‘I cannot imagine life without la signora.’
‘Well, you know her – she’s strong. Don’t despair just yet.’
Aurelia also sat at the table, watching her mother prepare fresh herbs for her mistress. She had seen Gerardo arrive with with Massoud not an hour before and had been upset by his obvious distress. She knew, of course, that he and Berta were lovers, but such tangible evidence of his affection for her had been painful… a shock even.
‘Aurelia,’ said her mother as she ground herbs in a pestle and mortar, ‘I think we should go for a walk in the Piazza.’
‘I don’t want to walk,’ said her daughter.
Violetta shot an anxious glance at Maria.
‘Go with your mother,’ she said, ‘we’ll still be here when you come back – and your mistress has no need of you at the moment.’
Wrapped tightly in their woollen cloaks, mother and daughter walked around the Piazza, the Duomo shimmering in the moonlight.
‘Aurelia darling,’ she said, taking her daughter’s arm, ‘there is something I need to discuss with you. Berta is not well… you know that. I am sorry to say that she will not survive. It is very sad, of course, but it will be very hard for you, seeing Gerardo with her every day, for he is a loyal friend to her and he will not desert her. Do you think you can bear to see him so often, knowing that he is with her?’
‘No. I don’t think I could bear it,’ she said, dejectedly. ‘But what else is to be done?’
‘Well,’ said her mother, sitting down on a stone bench outside the Baptistery, ‘if you will allow, I will speak to Berta about it.’
Aurelia began to protest, ‘Mamma, you can’t. She doesn’t know about me and Gerardo.’
‘I know, perhaps not – although she is more perceptive than you might give her credit for, Aurelia. Let me try at least. If she will agree, I will send you to stay with my sister, Lucia, in Siena. I shall remain here with Berta; she will need me now.’
‘But mamma… how will you live…? Without all your patients?’
‘Berta will take care of us, Aurelia – I’m sure of that.’
The following morning, as Violetta tended to Berta’s pain, she raised the matter: ‘Mistress, I have a small favour to ask you. I believe that you will need me here to help you over the coming months.’
‘I will,’ said Berta, ‘and am grateful for it. I know it will mean you will have to forgo your other patients, but I hope you know I will be generous. You will not be out of pocket.’
‘That is of no importance, but I am grateful to you. No… there is another matter I would like to discuss with you.’
‘Ah Violetta – you mean Aurelia.’
Violetta nodded
‘Yes,’ said Berta, ‘I too have been thinking about your daughter. I am not ignorant of the…. feelings that she has for Gerardo, although I do not believe they are reciprocated. I know you all think I am blind to other people’s feelings… selfish even.’
‘No, signora, not selfish ever… no.’
‘It’s quite understandable. I am, and have always been, strong-willed. And I have become used to getting my own way. Gerardo and I are very close. I love him, Violetta, and it would be better, I believe, for all concerned if Aurelia were sent away.’
‘I am grateful to you for your understanding.’
‘It is not generosity on my part, Violetta. I need to feel free to love Gerardo without restraint, and having Aurelia here would, I believe, complicate matters. Do you understand?’
‘I do, signora.’
‘Where could she go?’
‘To my sister… Lucia. She has a farm just outside Siena.’
‘We will send Giuseppe with her.’
Lucia lived on the farm where she and Violetta had been raised. After the death of their parents, Lucia and her husband Guido had taken it over and now earned their living producing pecorino – a sheep cheese, and red wine from the grapes that grew on south-facing slopes surrounding the house. On the ground floor of the old stone farmhouse, below their living quarters, they kept domestic animals: a cow, a pair of goats and four pigs, which wandered inside and out, warming the house above in the long, cold winter months. Outside, sheep grazed in fields on the north side of the farm and dozens of chickens, kept for eggs and the pot, chased around the farm yard, scattering noisily as the children ran amongst them throwing their corn to the ground.
Aunt Lucia and Guido had five children. The eldest girl, Alessandra, was a year older than Aurelia; the youngest, Madelena, was just two years of age. In between were three boys – Paolo, Rafaello and little Fabio.
Aurelia missed her mother, and thought often of Gerardo, but she was distracted by the large family and was relieved to be away from the apartment in Pisa with its ever-present scent of death, and the constant pain of seeing the man she loved caring for another.
She spent most of her days looking after her younger cousins, and, much to the delight of her aunt, even taught the two youngest children to read. When she was not working in the house, she helped on the farm. There was not a lot to do in the winter months, but the vineyards needed pruning – and the hillsides were filled with the smoke from a hundred bonfires. She and Alessandra tended the fires, gathering armfuls of old vines and sweeping them up in tidy piles.
Aurelia grew to love th
e gentle rolling hillsides, dotted with pale cream stone farm buildings. When she thought back to Pisa, with its tall houses and dark streets, she wondered if she could ever bear to return. She relished her country life, running with her cousins through the chestnut woods or helping her aunt milk the cow stabled under the house. She enjoyed the sensation of the cow’s teats between her fingers, and the sight of the frothy milk squirting into the bowl. Lucia taught her how to make cheese and she spent happy hours wandering around the creamery, smelling the curds as they matured in large bowls. She became quite expert at kneading the curds once they had drained through the muslins, pressing them with the cheese ‘stone’ that had been in Lucia’s’s family for many generations.
‘You have the knack, Aurelia,’ her aunt said delightedly.
When the cheese was just twenty days old, it was sent to market and sold as ‘fresh’ Pecorino Toscana. But a proportion of the cheeses were left to age for four months on the shelves at the back of the creamery, developing a dark yellow flesh and distinctive flavour. Once a week, her uncle brought their produce to the markets of Siena and its smaller neighbour San Gimignano. Aurelia relished these visits as they offered her the chance to help on the stall, and, if sales were slow, to wander the wide streets, studying the buildings and sculptures in the churches, before returning home to the farm, bouncing happily on the back of her uncle’s cart, in the wintry setting sun.
Her mother wrote to her as often as her duties allowed. But the letters lacked vital information. She appeared to be deliberately skirting any mention of either Berta or Gerardo, and instead concentrated on idle chatter from the apartment’s kitchens: ‘Maria’s brace of partridge was stolen by the Operaio’s dog.’ Or ‘Giuseppe’s horse was lame.’ Even when the story related directly to Berta, she avoided mention of her mistress: ‘Yesterday we had a visit from the Archbishop. The house was in turmoil, with Maria frantically cooking a vast meal for the assembled company. The Archbishop was accompanied by the Operaio and several members of the household of the Emperor Lord Frederico. It was a very splendid affair…’ But she made no mention of the lady at the centre of the splendid meal nor, more importantly, of Gerardo.
