He gently took off her shoes so her feet were bare, and pulled up her skirt and the bottoms of her bloomers until her legs were exposed to mid-thigh. A thrill ran down her spine, making her almost forget the straw that poked into her left arm as it supported her head. She re-adjusted herself so the angle made her breasts look fuller—at least from her vantage point.
Francesco went back to his station and began to draw with vigor. He seemed to be drinking her in with his eyes, while at the same time his hands moved quickly. His arms were noticeably muscular under the thin shirt he wore.
She let her hand fall, and rested her head on her upper arm. Her eyes were closing in spite of her efforts to keep them open. After a moment, she felt a sensation of lips lightly brushing hers. She opened her eyes. Francesco was lying next to her, kissing her. She moved slightly away, surprised, but he pulled her close. They kissed again. She was aware of the cooing of the doves. The rest of her clothing seemed to dissolve like magic. His too, were gone in a moment. She ran her hands over his beautiful, slim body. He caressed her, kissed her everywhere. The light had dimmed even more and it was hard to see him clearly. He lay on top of her as she brought her legs up and allowed him to enter her. The straw jabbed into her back and neck, but she didn’t care. Music floated toward her from somewhere. A harpsichord. How strange. They kissed as they made love. It was sweet and slow. He tasted like the wine, and his skin was smooth like the brushed cotton of her skirt.
“Cassandra? Cassandra?”
“Yes, Francesco, yes.”
“Cassandra?”
She opened her eyes. His face was close to hers but he was wearing his clothes. The music was gone, and the light was bright again. She sat up, clothes in place. Her head was foggy.
“You fell asleep,” Francesco said. “But I kept drawing you. I got some beautiful sketches. I’m very happy.”
“Oh.” It was a dream , b . B ut it didn’t have to be. There he was, close to her. She looked into his eyes and smiled. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, so full and sweet.
“I think we should stop for today,” he said, moving away. He went back to his drawings and began to roll them up. “I fear you are right about the rain. I want to get you back to the villa before it starts.”
“Oh,” she said again.
He continued to pack up his supplies. She grabbed her chemise but didn’t know how to put it back on without taking everything off, so she wadded it up with the blanket. A wave of nausea swept over her and her head spun. She found her shoes and slipped them on. Teetering over to him, she let herself fall against him while pretending to reach for the remaining bread and cheese.
“Are you all right?” he asked, grasping her elbow to steady her.
“Yes.” They were close now. “May I see the sketches?”
“Oh, I already packed them, but next time we meet, I’ll show you. Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. Did she sound as disappointed as she felt?
He stepped outside and she followed, looking at the back of his head through watery eyes.
“We’d better hurry,” he said.
He walked at a rapid pace, and she did her best to keep up. Soon drops began to fall. They hurried on. The rain came more heavily, soaking her. Her hat lay sodden on her head.
“Wait!” she finally called to him. She grabbed his arm and pulled him under the branches of a large tree. “Maybe we should wait here until it subsides.” She looked up into his face.
He smiled at her. “The color of your eyes is extraordinary.”
“Yours too,” she said.
He took a deep breath. “Let’s press on. I know these rains. They won’t stop now until after dark.”
He dashed out from under the tree and she followed, covering her head with the blanket. By the time they reached the villa, they were both drenched.
“You go in so you don’t get sick, Contessa. The Maestro will probably stay in town until after the rain stops. It will give you time to dry off and relax so when he gets home, he won’t suspect we had an adventure. I’m going to go home now. Good-bye.”
With that, he ran down the hill, leaving her at the door to the villa. It opened, and Ottavia was standing there, one hand on a hip. “Come on.” She drew her inside. “Alessandra!”
A woman who looked like a much younger version of Ottavia came running to the door. It was the laundress. Her black eyes flashed at Cassandra and her jaw set defiantly.
“Take the c C ontessa’s clothes.”
Cassandra handed her the wet chemise, and the old woman helped her take off her skirt and bodice. She left her bloomers on and kept the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
“Leave those outside your room for my granddaughter to collect.”
Cassandra looked at the young woman, who lowered her eyes, bowed once, and rushed off with the wet things. The time-traveler went on to her room, her stomach queasy, her head pounding, and a feeling of shame overtaking her.
Chapter Nine
Cassandra sat on a stool in Lauro’s studio on Friday, the morning of the twenty-fifth, fidgeting as he worked. She had not seen Francesco since they’d parted at the door of the villa. What a fool she had been to be so acquiescent with him. And then it was all for nothing.
“Cassandra, you must be still.”
She would scream if she heard that one more time. “This portrait was my brother’s idea, you know. I think it was just an excuse to come to Siena and find Giuliana.”
“Possibly. But he paid me good money to complete it, and so I must honor his desire. Besides, you are the most captivating subject I’ve had the pleasure to paint in a long time. My passion to paint you likely exceeds your brother’s passion to have you painted.”
“Thank you.” A sweet pleasure at Lauro’s words forced aside the remorse left over from the day with Francesco. She sat still for several minutes until the urge to squirm began to get the better of her. A breeze blew in from the garden, and with it, the chatter of the artists at their work. She breathed deeply. “The weather is so lovely. Don’t you long to be outside in it rather than cooped up here in the studio?”
Lauro put down his charcoal and smiled at his subject.
“What if I sketch you outside? Would you prefer that?”
“I don’t know, I suppose.”
“All right then. Let me finish a few with you in this pose, and then we will do more this afternoon in my orchard.”
He drew for a while in silence.
“Lauro….” she began.
“Yes?”
“Were you born in Siena?”
He looked up from his paper.
“No, I was born in San Gimignano.”
“Oh, I’d love to visit! I’ve heard it’s a beautiful town.”
He set aside his charcoal again. “As a matter of fact, I owe a visit to my great-aunt there. And, honestly, I think I have enough drawings to begin painting. We don’t need to take time for another session.”
“Can I go with you to San Gimignano?”
“I would welcome your company, but the road is dangerous.”
She considered this a moment. “Wouldn’t I be safe with you?”
“Probably…if you dress like a peasant, as I plan to do. I always go well-armed, for thieves and bandits roam those roads, even in broad daylight.”
“I’ve heard.”
“However, you must first get your brother’s approval.”
“Nonsense. I’m a grown woman. I don’t need his permission.”
Lauro raised his eyebrows. “If you don’t mind wearing servants’ clothes, I’ll ask Caterina to gather some up for you tonight. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Perfect. Then if we’re done for today, let’s make ready for the trip.”
She’d been occupied with keeping her eye on Jake over the course of the last few days, which wasn’t too difficult since they’d both been mostly at the studio. Still, she needed a break. Fortunately her ‘brother’ seemed to be content to be in
Francesco’s company, either watching the artist’s progress on Giuliana’s painting, or dabbling at his own work. Francesco was obviously not seeing much of Giuliana anymore, either. Good; then it was just a matter of biding their time until July second, and Cassandra wouldn’t mind spending it with Lauro.
The next morning they set out on two of the farm horses. With a satchel of food for his aunt strapped to his mount, the hilt of a sword just jutting out the top, Lauro led Cassandra along the road north to San Gimignano as the morning bells were tolling thirteen. Nine o’clock, she calculated.
She liked the simple clothing she wore in shades of brown and gray. The fabric was coarse, but beneath, she wore one of her comfortable cotton chemises. On her head was a flat cap with a broad brim to protect her face from the sun, and her hair was tucked up inside it. It was nice not attracting attention for once, and the sheathed dagger in the pocket of her skirt, bouncing against her thigh, was a reassuring presence.
As they rode, they talked together quietly, so that no one would hear they spoke in an educated manner, but as they entered the forest that lay a few kilometers beyond Lauro’s land, his voice fell to a whisper. “If we are to encounter thieves anywhere, it will be here, so let’s be as quiet as possible until we’re clear.”
Cassandra’s heart beat faster. Lauro grabbed the hilt of his sword. She clutched her dagger. Jake had raised an objection to her going and they had argued. Perhaps she should have listened to him.
They passed farmers, merchants, peasants, and one large retinue of upper class personage in an enclosed carriage with many armored riders, but no one who seemed threatening. Before long, the forest thinned and the landscape opened up onto fields of high wheat, ready to be harvested. Wild roses bloomed, dotting the fields with color. The sky was vibrant blue with puffy, white clouds. Cassandra breathed the air deeply. The smell of warm hay and flowers was unlike anything she’d experienced in her future world.
After three more hours of riding, they were able to make out the town of San Gimignano high on a hill, with its multitude of medieval towers. The horses climbed the winding road until they approached the walls of the town’s periphery. Lauro called his greeting to a guard at its gate―others were posted at regular intervals along the wall. The riders passed through the gate and along streets lined with buildings of light-tan brick and stone. The passageways were just as narrow and winding as in Siena, and their odor no less pungent. The people seemed friendlier, though. Some even said hello as they passed, acknowledging Lauro with a smile or a nod. He stopped to chat with store-owners and friends he recognized on the street. It was a city of devout people and organized commerce, Lauro told her proudly.
“I was born here in 1460. When the plague struck the town in 1464, my mother and siblings died and my father escaped with me to Siena, where his brother lived.”
Cassandra shuddered. “That’s terrible!” Thank God, she and Jake had been immunized against the dread disease.
“A few years after the plague passed,” Lauro continued. “We came back to see what remained. Many of the friends we’d known were gone. It was a sad time. By then we had established ourselves in Siena, but often came back to visit.”
“And your father? What did he do?”
“He was an importer of spices from Asia, who often did business in the large ports of the world. He had a difficult time after the death of my mother and siblings. He left me with my uncle in Siena as he traveled, and I rarely saw him before he died at sea while I was still a youth. Fortunately, he left me well provided for and so I was able to follow my wishes to become an artist.”
“How did you get started?”
“Oh, I apprenticed with the finest masters Siena had to offer, and even went to Florence and Venice to work with the masters there, but I returned to make Siena my home. I couldn’t stand the money-grubbing arrogance of the Florentines or the insular coldness of the Venetians.”
Yet what an ingenious people the Venetians were, permanently saving their city from sinking in the early 2030s. If Lauro could have lived into the future, he might well have been one of the engineers involved in that massive project.
“I think Venice is beautiful,” she said out loud, “and found the people there friendly to us English tourists, but I agree with you about Florence. I find it cramped, dirty, and the people aggressive, though I haven’t been there for many years,” she said truthfully. It was around the turn of the twenty-second century that she’d gone, before Florence had undergone a second Renaissance and become the clean and shining city she’d recently experienced through sens-net.
They continued on until they came to a modest house, just a doorway on a narrow street, the exterior wall ornamented with a blue tile mosaic of the Madonna. Lauro took the satchel off his saddle, called a young boy over whom he seemed to know, and handed him a coin to take their mounts to a stable and care for them. He knocked on the door and an ancient lady answered.
“Zia,” he shouted and grabbed the lady in his arms.
Cassandra was afraid the old woman would break, she seemed so frail, but she clapped Lauro on the back and started rattling to him in an incomprehensible dialect.
“Zia, Zia.” Lauro tried to get her attention.
She cocked her head, squinted her cloudy eyes, and ran them up and down Cassandra’s body.
“Chi è?”
At least those words—“who is this?”—were recognizable.
“ Questa è la Contessa Barrentine!” he said in introduction. The old woman reached out and felt the fabric of Cassandra’s dress, then frowned and said something to Lauro with an expression that conveyed a certain disgust.
Lauro laughed loudly, and Cassandra basically understood the explanation to his aunt that followed, of why a countess was wearing such humble clothing.
“Cassandra,” he said, turning to her, “this is my Great-Aunt Elena Sampieri.”
Cassandra curtseyed low before the woman, who then curtseyed even lower. “Molto piacere,” she said to the old woman, hoping the expression of “great pleasure” was effusive enough.
Signora Sampieri led them inside a long, low ceilinged room. It was more luxuriously fitted on the inside than it appeared on the out. Dark tapestries, faded with age, hung on the walls, and four carved chairs were lined up against them. The floor was covered with fresh rushes that let off a grassy scent. A candelabra with five lit tapers stood in a corner, providing a dim light. There was an arched entryway into the kitchen, where a fire burned in a cooking hearth and a large, wooden table dominated, surrounded by benches. As Lauro’s aunt led them to eat, Cassandra lingered in the main room, drew a small packet of insecticide from her pocket, and blew it into the air. Fleas and other insects that congregated in the rushes at her feet would not only be kept from affecting her, but would make the old woman’s home bug-free for many weeks. The woman would probably wonder about the lack of vermin, but it was a good feeling to be able to bring her some relief, especially now that it was summer.
In the kitchen, Lauro drew small wheels and paper-wrapped packages of cheeses from his bag while his aunt clapped with joy. He gave her lengths of sausage and salami, a ham, and parcels of dried fruits. She plopped a round loaf of brown bread onto the table and began to cut up the cheeses and meats for their repast.
They ate the food and drank a dark ale that Signora Sampieri provided while she and Lauro spoke, and Cassandra did her best to understand. From what she gathered, they mostly talked about family members and memories of those gone. Finally Lauro rose and they bid the old woman good-bye. She began to protest strongly about their leaving. Cassandra thought she was saying they should stay the night. The contessa, she was arguing, could sleep in the bed with her, and Lauro could have the extra bedroom. Cassandra threw Lauro a horrified look. He protested in return. He said Cassandra’s brother was expecting them back that night and would worry. Elena argued it was getting late and the roads were too dangerous after dark. Lauro expressed that if she let them go now, they
’d be back before dark. The old woman said it was too far a journey to go and come back in one day.
Cassandra began to panic. There was no way she was sleeping in the bed with Lauro’s aunt. She tried to join in the discussion, stressing the importance of not worrying her brother, but the aunt ignored her and continued back and forth with Lauro. He began to nudge Cassandra toward the door as he argued. Finally tears sprang to the elderly woman’s eyes. She longed to have his company, she said. She was lonely, she missed him so. Now Cassandra felt bad, but not bad enough to want Lauro to give in. They were at the door. Lauro hugged his aunt while she pleaded with him to stay. She hugged Cassandra and kissed her on both cheeks. She then grabbed Lauro and kissed his cheeks over and over. She seemed resigned. She murmured something into his ear, and he laughed. He kissed her again, and they left amidst curtseys and blowing of kisses.
They reclaimed their horses from the nearby stable and began the journey back to Siena. The sun was still not low in the sky. It was probably not four o’clock, and it would stay light until past eight. They should be able to accomplish the ride before dark.
“What did your aunt say to you as we were leaving?”
“She congratulated me on finding such a beautiful and rich future wife.”
A warm flush spread over Cassandra’s cheeks. “She thought we were getting married?”
“Well, yes, otherwise, she wouldn’t approve of you accompanying me.”
“It’s not correct for me to ride with you without an escort?”
“I didn’t think you would mind. You are not like our Italian women. You are very…unconventional.”
The scene in the old house with Francesco flashed through her mind. “I’ve been told as much.”
They rode silently for a few minutes.
“How often do you go to see her?”
“About once a month.”
“Does she depend heavily on the food you bring her?”
“Oh no, the woman is as rich as an empress. She’s got gold stashed all over that house. My uncle takes very good care of her, and she hoards all the money. However, she lives modestly so as not to attract thieves.”
The Time Contessa (The Time Mistress Book 3) Page 10
