The Time Contessa (The Time Mistress Book 3)

by Georgina Young-Ellis

  She quickly formed her face into a more pleasant expression as she replied to Sampieri. “I would be delighted. I will introduce you to some of our English composers.”

  When they’d finished their pasta, Sampieri stood and pulled a cord hanging against the wall. A grin spread over his face as a panel in the floor slid away. Up out of the hole came a table with a great roasted duck upon it.

  A delighted cry escaped Cassandra’s mouth before she could suppress it.

  “Another invention, Maestro?” queried Jake.

  “Yes, Conte. The idea of the dumbwaiter is not a new one, but to bring the table directly up from the cellar kitchen to my side is not like anything I’ve ever seen.”

  Cassandra laughed. The man was full of surprises.

  Sampieri carved and distributed the meat to his guests on the same plates the pasta had been served on. A coarse, brown bread accompanied it, which the guests dipped into the juice from the center platter. There were cheeses also, that they hacked from a central plate, and a bowl of roasted fennel from the garden that Cassandra ate while trying not to think about how it was fertilized. Finally a bowl of peaches was presented while wine continued to flow.

  “We hear you are going to be painting Giuliana Guerrini, Signor Marino,” began Jake as he bit into a peach. “She was an acquaintance of mine in Florence before she was married.” He caught the peach’s juice with his hand before it dribbled down his chin.

  “Oh,” said Marino, picking up his goblet of wine with his forefinger and thumb . , “ H h ow did you know her?”

  “I was apprenticed to da Vinci, and her father was a regular patron to the studio. She visited with him often.”

  “And you expect to see her while you are in town?” Sampieri seemed to study Jake carefully.

  “Perhaps.” Jake looked up at him with his clear, blue eyes, and set the fruit aside. “I’m not going to pretend Signora De Lucca Guerrini and I did not have more than just a friendly relationship. But that information should not go beyond this room, gentlemen.”

  “Yes, her husband is a jealous one, I should warn you,” said Marino.

  Cassandra raised her eyebrows at Jake.

  The young artist continued. “He and I struck up a kind of friendship when he commissioned me for the portrait. He likes to have people around who are smarter than he is.” He smirked. “However, I think it would take very little to set him off. He doesn’t like Giuliana to be around his friends and prefers she stay at home most of the time.”

  “Francesco, you shouldn’t gossip about our patrons,” Sampieri remarked.

  “It’s not gossip; it’s what everyone knows to be true about Piero Guerrini. He is a man of great wealth and little education—a bad combination.”

  “I’ve never met the man,” said Jake sullenly.

  “But tell us, Conte Grenefeld—” Sampieri began.

  “Please, call me Jacopo.”

  “Very well. Why did nothing more become of your romance with Giuliana?”

  “You can guess, I’m sure,” replied Jake. “While she and I were in the midst of trying to figure out how we could be together, her father found out we’d been fostering a relationship, an innocent one, but still, it was enough to drive him mad with rage. I fled Florence and broke her heart, I’m sure. But her family was then able to make the alliance with Siena. She had no choice. At twenty-one, it was that or the convent, and there would have been trouble with the Guerrini clan if she’d refused the marriage. The De Lucca family did not want one more skirmish between the Florentines and the Senese. As for me, well, I’ve spent the last few years regretting my cowardly behavior, but I believe my life, and possibly Giuliana’s, was at stake.”

  “It’s too bad. Though Siena has gained a prize with both Giuliana’s beauty and her family’s money, I always vote for a marriage of love before convenience.”

  “But it is so terribly uncommon, Maestro Sampieri,” Cassandra ventured. “Did you marry for love?”

  “I was lucky. Teresa and I met when I was not yet a successful artist, but her father had faith in me. He approved the match, which brought me more wealth than it brought her, yet she received great happiness from it, as did I, of course, and this pleased her father. It was not the usual circumstance.”

  “I am glad of it,” Cassandra smiled, and their eyes met.

  “Tell me, Jacopo,” Sampieri said, turning to Jake. “What is it that fascinates everyone about da Vinci? The man finishes very little he begins. Do you think he is a greater inventor than I?”

  “I have yet seen so little of your work, Maestro, I cannot answer competently. But let me say this, da Vinci has invented many wondrous things: war machines, flying machines, armored vehicles. But your inventions strike me as articles designed to help us live a better, more beautiful life. What could be more valuable than that?”

  “The way I see it exactly,” Sampieri concluded.

  The meal was finished and servants came in to clear the table.

  “And now, we rest, my friends. Francesco, your usual room awaits you.”

  They all rose from the table, but Cassandra wasn’t tired. “Would it disturb anyone if I practiced on the harpsichord?”

  “Not at all,” said Sampieri. “Let me escort you.”

  “If your music intrudes on my sleep,” Marino said, bowing low, “I will think of it as the harmony of the angels, lulling me toward the clouds.” He took Cassandra’s hand and kissed it.

  She indulged him with a smile. Sampieri plucked her hand from Marino’s and held it lightly in his as he led her away. They walked through the house and into one of the large spaces they’d passed with Ottavia when she and Jake had first come in. Cassandra hadn’t seen the gold-leaf covered instrument nestled near the wall in the large room, but when Sampieri led her into the high-ceilinged space, lit by two of the arched windows on the front wall of the house, joy filled her heart. She went and sat on the stool in front of it. Touching one key, she thrilled at the sound, more like the plucking of a harp than the percussive pong of a piano. She ran through a few, quick scales. It was slightly out of tune.

  “Does it please you?”

  “Yes, very much. Do you mind leaving me alone to get familiar with it?”

  “Not at all. Do you need music? Teresa and my girls had some manuscripts of pieces, transcribed for them by their instructor, which I still keep here.” He showed her a bound leather portfolio resting on a small table near the instrument. “Sometimes my guests use them when they entertain me.”

  “I will look at them; I’m very interested. However, But the music I bring from England is all here.” She pointed to her head.

  “Incredibile. Very well. I will be going back to my studio after I rest. I’ll see you tonight; we will have supper, wine, and conversation with a few friends. You truly won’t mind playing for us?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Wonderful. Buona sera.”

  Again, their gazes locked.

  “Good afternoon.”

  When Sampieri and Marino returned in the evening, bringing with them half a dozen friends with wives and mistresses, Cassandra was ready to perform. Marino, like Sampieri, came unaccompanied. The young artist drew a chair up next to the instrument as Cassandra played. She was aware of him watching her fingers as they moved across the keys, her face as she responded to the music. He was vigilant, keeping her wine goblet filled, and the first to applaud after each piece was finished.

  When Cassandra moved away from the harpsichord after nearly an hour of playing, a plump, fair-skinned lady beckoned to her. It might have been the one of the women in the sketches they’d seen at Sampieri’s studio. She was seated near a low, rectangular table of thick wood in the middle of the room, inlaid with a complex mosaic pattern of tiny tiles. The stunted table legs rested on a woven rug of red wool shot through with golden strands. Pillows of various sizes, in red, purple, blue, and gold silks and velvets were piled around it, and the lady was seated on one of them.

&n
bsp; “Come here and sit by me, Contessa.”

  “And me,” said a younger woman sitting near her, with thin, brown hair and a very large nose. She patted a cushion.

  Cassandra went to them and lowered herself down onto the pillow, delicately arranging her gown as she did so as to not expose any sight of leg.

  The plump woman introduced herself as Marta Brogi, the other was Elisabetta Schapecchi. Both were elegantly dressed, their gowns adorned with jewels. Francesco Marino kicked a pillow toward them and draped himself onto it. He popped a morsel of cake into his mouth.

  Cassandra’s stomach growled. Perhaps Jake would bring her something to eat. At the opposite end of the room, guests hovered around him near a table laden with fruits, cakes and cheeses. The women flirted with the English count, laughing behind fans, tilting their heads and blinking their lashes, while the men took turns boasting of their success in business, always looking to be sure Jake was listening. Cassandra waved limply in his direction.

  “Where in England do you live, Contessa?” asked Marta, regaining her attention.

  “Ha! Like you know anything about England. You’ve never been there,” Elisabetta crowed.

  “Neither have you,” said Marta.

  “I am from a place called Hampshire,” said Cassandra.

  “Amp-sheerrr,” Elisabetta repeated. “Oooh, what’s it like?”

  “Oh, very beautiful,” Cassandra said. Scenes from her year of living there in 1820 filled her mind. “Green rolling hills, forests, farms, lakes, beautiful little towns, grand homes. Not so different from Tuscany, really, except in the types of trees and crops…and architecture. It rains more too, and is not so hot in the summer. Also, the towns are not on hilltops as they are here.”

  “What? How strange,” said Marta. “How then, can one see their enemy approaching?”

  Think further back in time. England in the sixteenth century had been a feudal society, certainly, but not war-like, as were the city-states of the peninsula that was not even yet known as Italy. “England is a sovereign country, and its people are united. They do not war against each other.” Not entirely true—there were plenty of religious conflicts—but it was close enough.

  “Oh….” the women said in unison, both blinking vacantly.

  “And how, if I may be so bold to ask,” continued Elisabetta, her eyes coming back into focus, “do you come to be a countess? By birthright or marriage?”

  “Oh, that is a very rude question,” cried Marta.

  “I don’t mind,” said Cassandra, happy to practice her invented background. “My brother is an earl, which in England is the same rank as a count, but we generally do not use that term.”

  “Aarl,” Elisabetta tried to say.

  Cassandra laughed and gave the woman’s hand a squeeze. “It is hard to pronounce, which is why, when traveling abroad, we use the term ‘count,’ which foreigners can say more easily.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “However, his being a count does not make me a countess. My inherited title is duchess, actually, but I married an earl, as well as being sister to one, and in England the wife of an earl is called a countess.”

  “That is very confusing,” said Marta.

  “I agree,” said Cassandra.

  “And so your husband’s name is….”

  “Was. I am a widow.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Marta.

  “How terrible, my dear,” Elisabetta added.

  “Thank you.” Cassandra’s voice trembled. “He passed just two years ago.” In reality, her husband Franklin had been gone seven years. Best to stay focused on the imaginary earl. “His surname, and mine of course, is Barrentine.” She had chosen the name knowing it would be easy for the Italian tongue to pronounce.

  “Bah-ren-teeen,” said Elisabetta.

  “Yes, you say it well.”

  “Tell me,” said Marino, breaking into the conversation, his words slurred, “are all the women in England as beautiful as you? Now that you are unencumbered, if you’ll excuse my saying so, you must be quite in demand.”

  The two women tittered and Cassandra laughed politely. “Thank you for the compliment, Signor Marino.”

  “Francesco…call me Francesco.”

  “Yes, all right. Well, I don’t know how to answer your question, since I don’t perceive myself as beautiful. The women in England are mostly of fair complexion, like me, and some are very beautiful, some not so much, just like here.”

  “You are…what is the expression I have heard…an English rose.”

  “If you say so.”

  Francesco’s gaze traveled over the contours of her body, causing heat to rise to the surface of her skin.

  “Oh, signore, you are terrible!” giggled Marta. She gave Francesco’s knee a tap with her fan, and he grinned at her.

  He downed the rest of the wine in his goblet and called Caterina over to serve him more.

  “My dear,” said Cassandra, before the maid turned to rush away. “Please, a plate with some cheese and fruit.”

  “Yes, Contessa.” She scurried away.

  Francesco turned to Marta. “And what about the portrait of you, Signora Brogi? I know the Maestro did some trial sketches, but when I’m done with my portrait of Signora Guerrini, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I took it over.” He leaned in close to her and whispered. “But I’ll only do it if you let me sketch you first in the nude.”

  “Oh!” she screeched, laughing loudly. “Signore, how can you say such things?”

  A man looked in their direction and frowned at Marta; obviously the woman’s husband. Marta meekly waved at him. Caterina returned with a silver plate filled with food, and Cassandra ate eagerly while the others talked. As soon as she finished, fatigue washed over her. How long would she be expected to stay up and entertain Sampieri’s guests?

  As if on cue, the master of the house came to offer more wine, but she shook her head. He took the hint. He held his hand out to help her to her feet while Francesco simultaneously leapt up.

  “We will let our charming musician go and rest,” Sampieri called to the group.

  Francesco took her hand, kissed it, and moved in close. “Though Maestro Sampieri is doing your portrait, Contessa, perhaps we could steal away one day so I could sketch you as well.” His breath was heavy with alcohol.

  Cassandra merely smiled and moved away as Sampieri escorted her from the room and through the house. At the door of her bedroom, he took her hand.

  “I’m afraid we taxed you this evening.”

  “No, it was a pleasure. I am tired though. I look forward to a good night’s rest after last night in the inn. Thank you for everything. Your hospitality is beyond what my brother and I hoped to find here.”

  “When you came into my studio today, you were a vision that startled me out of a long, melancholy languish. I suddenly feel that new energy and inspiration has been brought into my life.”

  “Thank you for the compliment. You are most kind.”

  “Sleep well.” He let her hand drop.

  “And you.” She opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her. Moonlight streamed in through the window. She undressed, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and blew a packet of the bug powder into the air. She crawled into the bed, soft with feather mattress, pillows, and quilt, the linens fresh with the smell of the outdoors.

  She tapped a large amber stone on a ring on her left hand, ready to record all that had happened since she and Jake had arrived in Siena. She didn’t need to open her eyes for that; she could just lie there and speak into the stone. Yet the only words she could manage were: “Don’t fall under the spell, Cassandra, don’t fall….”

  Chapter Five

  Francesco had stayed overnight at Sampieri’s villa, too drunk to walk home. Monday morning Cassandra and Jake walked with him and Sampieri to the studio. They sat with the maestro at his work table and discussed color palettes, background, the size of the picture, what the subject would wear—al
l the necessary details Sampieri needed to work out before he could begin sketching Cassandra for the portrait.

  Francesco lounged nearby, eating apricots he’d picked from a tree on the road. “I’m going to meet Signor and Signora Guerrini here in a little while. We are to have this same conversation about the lady’s portrait.”

  “Ah, very good,” said Jake. “It will be nice to see her again and meet her illustrious husband.”

  A glance flew between Francesco and Sampieri.

  “Maestro, may I use this basin to wash up?” Jake asked, indicating a stand next to the wall with a ceramic pitcher and large bowl on top of it.

  “Of course.”

  Jake splashed water on his face and smoothed his hair, using a small, ornately framed mirror on the wall. Just as he finished, the door to the studio opened and in walked a man and woman that Sampieri greeted warmly. The man was swarthy, with pock-marked skin. His hair was black and greasy, his jaw firm, his eyes dark and penetrating, and his body well-shaped. He was not as old-looking as Cassandra had expected.

  Giuliana stared at Jake, her eyes wide, as Sampieri introduced Piero Guerrini to him. The men bowed to one another; it was obvious Jake was trying not to look at her. Then introductions were made of the women. Giuliana offered Cassandra only a brief nod. Her eyes seemed to throw fire as they met Jake’s again, while her face flushed scarlet.

  “Piacere,” Cassandra said to Giuliana and her husband. Close up, the woman was truly beautiful, far more so than in the dreamed portrait. Her eyes were dark brown, large and round, her nose long and straight. Her face was oblong, and her skin, once the red began to fade, was the color of an almond’s flesh. Her hair was thick and dark under the dual-pointed hat she wore, and it flowed down her back beneath a veil.

  “Please, be seated and we can talk together about your portraits,” offered Sampieri. “Francesco, will you bring those stools?”

  He did, and Piero sat. As Francesco held the stool for Giuliana, his eyes remained glued to her ample cleavage.