Orphan of the Olive Tree - Historical Romance Saga

by Patzer, Mirella Sichirollo

  Emotion constricted the abbess’s throat as she skimmed her fingers gently across the precious pages. “It is a beautiful gift, one that I will cherish as much as I have cherished you.” She glanced at her young charge with an indescribable softening in her heart.

  Olivia, the infant someone had callously abandoned in the olive tree in front of the abbey. The child she had come to love as if she were her own flesh and blood. She had always been adorable, easy to love; an angel who brought enjoyment and laughter into the serenity of cloistered life. The girl’s presence fostered a mothering instinct in each sister who lived at the abbey. They all doted on her and indulged her in every way possible. They answered her questions patiently, smothered her with endless love, and filled her head with knowledge at every opportunity. Fortunately, Olivia remained unspoiled by it all.

  By the age of two, Olivia spoke with clarity and politeness far beyond her tender age. She learned how to please and loved to do so. When she turned seven, she read her first Psalter from start to finish. At the age of twelve, no one could find fault with her command of Latin. By the time she turned fifteen, she illuminated manuscripts with a fine hand, for she had a natural instinct for perfection. So great was her concentration, she rarely needed to scrape errors from a sheet of parchment or vellum. Her script was delicate, her calligraphy graceful. Olivia embroidered altar cloths and clerical robes with similar skill, and her tapestry stitches were always tight and neat. She also excelled at spinning; the delicate weave of her cloth meant it sold first at market.

  Olivia’s only fault, as far as the abbess could see, was the fact that at times she was too naïve and accepting. She saw goodness in everything, never challenged or questioned things enough, but it was a minor fault and one that would fade with maturity and experience.

  Now she had grown into a beautiful woman with flowing hair as dark as ripe chestnuts. Olivia’s brown eyes changed in intensity, darkening in dimness, brightening in sunlight, but always calling attention to the natural blush of her cheeks and lips. At eighteen years of age and in the full bloom of womanhood, Olivia’s personal appearance was entirely becoming, though she was unaware of it. She never seemed to notice men who turned to look at her, as they wound their way past the market stalls. She never caught the warm glances of boys her own age, but the abbess did, and it brought out her need to protect this innocent, near-perfect child.

  The abbess’s heart swelled with pride and she gave Olivia a hearty embrace. “The book is a magnificent gift. It will be difficult for me to match it when it is time to celebrate the anniversary of your birth.”

  “I am blessed to have you in my life.” Olivia smiled, and then a distant, pensive look crept into the girl’s face.

  The abbess carefully closed the book and straightened it in her lap. She looked at Olivia. “You are a woman grown, now. Have you thought of your future?”

  Olivia’s brows rose slightly. “My future?”

  “You are still certain your heart’s desire is to wed and bear children one day?”

  “I’ve never known any other life than behind the walls of our abbey, but I yearn to explore the world, to be a wife and mother and have a family of my own.” Olivia pinched a fold of her gown and rubbed the cloth with thumb and forefinger. “May I ask you a question, Reverend Mother?”

  The abbess encouraged her with a smile. “Most certainly.”

  Olivia tilted her head. “How can I marry when I do not know who I am or what my family name is?”

  The abbess paused. She heaved a sigh and studied the crucifix hanging on the back of her door while she gathered her thoughts. Never before had Olivia broached the matter of her origins. “The sisters and I are your family.” She reached over to squeeze Olivia’s hand in reassurance.

  Olivia’s features grew more animated. “And I, too, love you with all my heart, but I have always felt as if a part of me were missing. Lately, I’ve begun to think about myself and where I came from.”

  Iciness formed in the pit of the abbess’ stomach. For years, she had lived in dread of this question, for she knew it would rouse Olivia’s curiosity and fuel a multitude of others she had no answers for, but she had had ample time to prepare. Gathering her wits about her, she retreated briefly into her thoughts to assemble her carefully planned words.

  “Do you know who my mother was and why she left me here?” Olivia’s voice rose.

  The question, asked with such purity, weighed like a stone on the abbess’s chest. She knew what she must do. She rose and crossed the room to the large wooden chest in the corner, raised the lid, and shifted the contents until she found what she sought. With great care, she removed a folded blanket and returned to Olivia. Slowly, she placed it into her hands. “This belongs to you.”

  Olivia stared down at the silk brocade blanket, then back up at her with somber curiosity.

  The abbess resumed her seat. “Go ahead, Olivia, unwrap the cloth.”

  Olivia rested the blanket on her lap and unfolded it with tremulous hands. She raised a golden ring, which hung on a faded red ribbon. She ran her finger over the engraved B’s on both sides of the large ruby at the ring’s center. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed as she slid the jewel onto her middle finger. It was a bit too large, but she held it steady with her index and ring fingers as she raised her hand to examine it. “B? What does it stand for, I wonder?”

  “I do not know for certain, but I suspect it may represent a family name.”

  Olivia studied it for a few moments. Then with the ring still on her finger, she touched the silk brocade blanket. Raising the colorful cloth against her cheek, she inhaled its scent. “What is all this? What does it mean?”

  The abbess folded her hands on her lap. The memory of the day when they had found Olivia so many years ago ruffled through her mind like a breeze over a still pond. With the point of her tongue, she moistened her upper lip. “Sister Vincenza’s father, our church custodian at the time, was the one who found you. While he tolled the morning bells, he spotted a basket hanging from the olive tree in front of the abbey. He rushed down and found you inside, tucked beneath that very blanket. The ring on its ribbon was around your neck.”

  Olivia stared at the ring. She opened her mouth to say something, but paused. She looked at the abbess with furrowed brows, her look inquisitive. “No one saw who put me there?”

  The abbess shook her head.

  Olivia bit her lip. “And nobody came to claim me?”

  “Signore Salvo immediately took you to Sister Vincenza, who nursed and changed you. Then he brought you here, to us.”

  Olivia’s eyes welled with tears. “An orphan of the olive tree.”

  “I prefer to think of you as a gift from God,” the abbess said. “Do not be disappointed, child. Whoever left you here knew that you would be welcomed, loved, and educated. The golden ring and the brocade were left with you to let us know that you came from a wealthy or influential family.”

  “And that is supposed to make me feel better?” Olivia’s voice carried a wisp of sorrow. “To know that whoever abandoned me had the means to care for me, but chose not to?”

  “Do not judge so hastily. There are many reasons why mothers relinquish their children. Perhaps the family fell on hard times and could no longer provide for you. Maybe the mother knew she was dying and had no choice than to leave you in our care. Whatever the motive, do not let it distress you. Be grateful you have had a plentiful life filled with love. Nothing else matters. Whoever left you here must have done so with that very hope in mind. I am certain of it.”

  Olivia removed the ring and set it back on top of the brocade cloth. She stared down at the items on her lap. Her hand moved slowly back and forth over the treasures, as if the more she touched them, the more they might reveal their secrets. When she looked back up the tears that glistened in her eyes moments earlier had disappeared. “Oh, Mother, you speak the truth. I have always been happy here. I was indeed blessed to have been left in your care, but please u
nderstand that all my life I have wondered who I am. One day I hope to find my mother and father.”

  “Yes, but when that moment arrives, you must not judge. Whatever the circumstances of your birth, whatever the reason why you were left in our care, remember that we have all benefited.”

  Olivia sighed, clasped her hands together, and stared down at them. A few moments of silence passed. “I still have so many questions.”

  “That is to be expected. May I suggest you speak with Sister Vincenza? Perhaps she can recall something else.”

  A smile found its way through the uncertainty on Olivia’s face despite her obvious doubt. “I will seek her out.”

  “One day, perhaps you’ll learn all the secrets of your birth, but in the interim, remember nothing can change the past. We can only affect the present, and perhaps the future, but always know that you are loved.”

  Olivia leaned forward in her chair and took the abbess’s hand. “I am truly thankful,” she said in a controlled voice. “Instead of one mother, I have many – you, Sister Vincenza, and the others. No one could be more fortunate.” She folded the items into the blanket and handed them back to the abbess.

  “Nay my child, they are rightfully yours. One day, may they answer your questions, and if not, may they comfort you and bring you peace.”

  37

  At the sound of footsteps at the doorway, Sister Vincenza glanced up from her embroidery.

  Olivia took a tentative step into the refectory. “May I speak to you, Sister Vincenza?

  “I always have time for you, Olivia. Come and sit beside me. You may help me embroider if you wish.”

  Olivia returned her smile and took a seat next to her at one end of the large table.

  Vincenza set down her embroidery hoop. Part of the linen altar cloth she was working on rested across the corner of the gleaming oak top. The rest lay gathered over her lap to avoid it trailing on the floor. Threads of various colors were organized in neat piles before her. The refectory was not normally the location to complete such handiwork, but because of the storm, the light from the fire in the hearth and the large, clean surface on which to lay the work on, it made the room ideal.

  Vincenza took in her furrowed brows and the serious look on her face. Then she noticed what Olivia carried in her hands. The brocade blanket the abbess had so carefully preserved for Olivia all these years. There was no mistaking it. Vincenza kept herself composed and showed no reaction. She and the abbess had both known this moment would come.

  Olivia set her treasures on the table before her. Then she pulled out a chair, sat, and smoothed her over-tunic. Hands clasped on her lap, she shifted her eyes from her brocade to the altar cloth and then back up to Sister Vincenza.

  Vincenza paused. “Do you like it?” She raised the corner of the altar cloth and pointed to the partially sewn circle of roses that encircled a brown cross.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I hope to have this completed to adorn the bishop’s Christmas altar.” Vincenza glanced at the blanket Olivia had placed on the tabletop and raised an eyebrow. “What have you there?” The answer would help her discern how much the abbess might have told her.

  Olivia hesitated. Her eyes revealed a brief flash of distress as she reached for it and handed it to her. “Reverend Mother gave it to me. She told me that you may know something more about it.”

  Vincenza shifted the altar cloth from her lap to the table, careful to keep her needle and thread from tangling. With a small tremor of her hand, she accepted the proffered blanket and rested it on her lap.

  “Do you recognize it?” Olivia asked eagerly.

  Sister Vincenza searched Olivia’s face. Seeing no clue, she unfolded the blanket. Her eyes remained fixed on the familiar items. All these years the abbess had carefully guarded the secret of the girl’s origins. This ring and brocade blanket now threatened to expose the past. She swallowed a pang of rising anxiety and forced her face to remain expressionless as she scoured her thoughts for the planned response. “What did the abbess tell you?”

  “Only that your father found me in a basket in the olive tree outside the abbey’s walls, and that these items were with me at the time.”

  Vincenza’s throat tightened. “That is true.” A bout of anguish surfaced at the memory. She had never spoken about what happened to her own family so many years ago. “At the time,” her voice faltered, “I had a baby of my own, a son, and because my father did not know how long you had been in the olive tree, he brought you first to me. When I removed you from the basket, I saw you had been cared for very well. These items, along with a bottle of fresh goat’s milk, were in the basket with you. I don’t think you were there for long, because you were not overly soiled or hungry.”

  “Did your father see who left me there?” Olivia’s voice quivered slightly with hope.

  “No, I am sorry, he did not.” Vincenza touched Olivia’s knee to console her. “My father left you with me while he returned to the abbey to speak to the abbess. I wanted to keep you, but I was a widow and my son was newly born. Besides, it was obvious that whoever abandoned you wanted you to be raised in the abbey.”

  Sister Vincenza took Olivia by the hand. “From the moment I saw your angelic face, so peacefully asleep, and I lifted you into my arms, I have loved you. Relinquishing you grieved me beyond words, but I knew the good-hearted abbess and the sisters could provide better for you than I could, given my recently widowed status.”

  Vincenza inhaled deeply. “A short time thereafter, I lost my father and my son. Alone in the world, I entered the abbey, too, not only to give my life to God, but also to help care for you.” This time, she could not avoid the swell of grief. Much to her dismay, her eyes welled with tears at the resurfacing memories, and she glanced quickly away to keep Olivia from noticing.

  “I am so sorry, Sister Vincenza. I did not mean to cause you any pain.” Olivia leaned over and embraced her.

  The hug was balm to an open wound and Vincenza held her close, as if their hearts could touch and console each other. “You have always been the one beam of light in the darkness of my life. If not for you, I do not know if I could have carried on.”

  “I have always loved you with all my heart.”

  “I know that, child.” Vincenza released her and leaned back in her chair. “In my soul, I have always known that your abandonment was the best thing for you. I cannot explain why or how I know this. It is a knowledge that lives and breathes within me. God saw fit to bring you here. Never question that. The past is best left to rest. It is the future that carries hope.”

  Olivia held the items in her shaking hands. “The abbess said much the same thing to me.”

  A few moments passed in silence before Olivia looked back at Vincenza again. “I understand, now, Sister. The ring and the blanket may be all that remains of my past, but in exchange, I have been blessed with a happy life where I have learned much and have known great love. For that, I am grateful, but I cannot stop wondering about my past. One day, I hope to learn who my mother and father were.”

  Vincenza tensed. “There is no sin in wanting to learn about your past, Olivia, but sometimes it is best not to seek it, for the truth can harm as well as heal. Whoever brought you here was determined to keep your origins a secret.”

  “Then why leave me with such a ring? It is clear it bears the initial of a family name.”

  “Likely it was to provide a small dowry or to let the abbess know you were not born in poverty. Whatever the reason, I believe it is best to forget the past. You must always remember that your future holds promise and good fortune. Count your blessings, and never regret what was not. Rather, focus on the path God has chosen for you.”

  Olivia’s features slowly softened in resignation, and she flung herself into Vincenza’s arms.

  Vincenza could not remember a moment when she had held Olivia so tightly, trying to relay all her love in a single embrace, and reveling in the exquisite contact. When they released eac
h other, she helped Olivia fold the items away.

  “Thank you, Sister. I appreciate all that you and the Reverend Mother have done for me.” Olivia pecked a kiss on Vincenza's cheek, and then left the refectory.

  Vincenza watched Olivia walk away with a much heavier step than when she had entered. She prayed she had convinced the child. Olivia must never know who her mother was. No good could come from knowing the vile creature that had given birth to her and then callously discarded her. Her promise to Cosma, made so many years ago, sat as true and strong in her heart as the day she had made it.

  She stood, walked over to the window, and stared through the steady rain into the cloister. Had she said the right things? Had she succeeded in swaying Olivia to let the past alone?

  Memories of long ago swirled in her mind. The conversation she had overheard between Cosma and Prudenza about the child given away at birth, the vision of Prudenza holding the pillow over Cosma’s face, ready to kill her. Yes, she was well aware of the atrocious secret of Olivia’s origins, of the evil mother who relinquished her own flesh and blood to preserve her reputation. All these years she had kept her silence. There was no sin in that, but today, that had changed. She had deliberately lied to Olivia about her birth. Although she had hidden the truth to protect Olivia, she had still committed a sin, though one she did not regret. Vincenza closed her eyes. "God, forgive me," she whispered. "Olivia, forgive me."

  38

  For nine hundred years, the townsfolk of Costalpino had venerated Saint Ansano of Siena; a humble man who had survived a brutal scourging prior to his persecutors hurling him into a pot of boiling oil as punishment for converting hundreds to Christianity. On this, his feast day, the townsfolk gathered to celebrate.

  At the center of the piazza, Luca Ventura sat with his parents at one end of a table they shared with the Benevento family. Torches blazed around the perimeter, casting a vibrant light against the black canopy of the starlit sky. Boisterous villagers occupied rows of trestle tables laden with pitchers of wine and platters heaped with roasted pork, crusty loaves of brown bread, ravioli stuffed with pounded pork, eggs, cheese, and parsley, and plenty of honey cakes. Children frolicked, throwing sticks for dogs to fetch or tossing and chasing an inflated pig bladder.