“Taking a break, Maria?”
“Oh, Emmi.” She waved me over. “Come see what’s just arrived.”
The fire crackled as I crossed the room. Maria’s study was much warmer than Father’s.
Before her, on the table, stood a brass armillary sphere nearly two feet tall. The instrument consisted of a small globe surrounded by a series of interlocking rings. Father had one like it in his study. I doubted he ever used it, though, except to rest his hand on while posing for a portrait.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” Maria said.
“Yes. But why do you need an armillary sphere? Don’t tell me Father is having your portrait painted, too?”
Maria giggled. I smiled to hear such a childlike sound from her. Although only thirteen months my elder, she usually seemed much older.
“No, you goose.” Maria gave my hands a quick squeeze. Despite the warmth of the room, her hands were even colder than mine. “Father has hired a new tutor. I’m to study the motion of the planets.” She touched one of the armillary sphere’s outer rings, shifting the alignment of the earth and stars.
Of course. The astronomy tutor Father and Mamma had argued about. “No wonder you’re excited.”
“That’s not all,” Maria said. “I’m to study advanced mathematics, too. Oh, Emmi, God is so good to me!” She clapped her hands like a child who’d just received a new toy.
“I’m glad to see you happy, Maria, though I don’t understand how learning such things can bring you pleasure. Studying Latin with Abbot Zanetti was torture for me. Of course, it was none too easy on him, either.” I laughed. “Does this mean the old abbot will be quitting as your teacher?”
“Oh, no. He’ll continue tutoring me in languages and history.” Maria’s eyes glittered even more brightly. Her resemblance to Father was uncanny. The similarity always struck me as odd, considering the difference in their temperaments. But perhaps it was one of the reasons Father favored her so.
“The abbot has me translating another section of Homer’s Iliad, this time into German,” Maria went on. “Father wants me to present it at a reception to honor the new governor.”
Father had spoken to Maria first. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Even so, envy flickered in my chest. I pressed a hand to my bodice to smother the feeling.
“Did Father mention I’m to perform for the governor, too?”
“No, he didn’t. How wonderful!” Maria grabbed my arms. “Now the attention won’t all be on me.”
“I don’t understand. You’ve been performing at Father’s meetings for years. I thought you’d be used to it by now.”
Maria shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” She sat down at her desk. “I love learning. But standing up to demonstrate my knowledge before an audience of scholars and noblemen …” Her voice trailed off. She grasped the gold cross she always wore around her neck.
My stomach tightened. If Maria, with all her practice, dreaded such performances, how would I ever manage?
“Is it that unnerving?”
“It’s more than unnerving,” Maria said. “It’s immodest. I spoke to Padre Gilberto about it. He said it would be a far greater sin to disobey Father’s wishes.”
My stomach relaxed. Only my pious sister would consult our family confessor about such a thing. “God is the one who blessed you with your amazing gifts, Maria. Surely, Our Heavenly Father wouldn’t disapprove of your sharing them with others.”
Maria smiled. “That’s what Padre Gilberto said.” She reached up to take my hand. “Oh, Emmi, I’m glad you’ll be performing at the reception, too, and not only for my sake. You glorify God with your musical brilliance.”
My sister’s praise felt like sunshine on my face. If only I could get Father to agree with her.
***
At supper that evening, Father sat at the head of the table, as always. Since Giovanni and Alessandro were away at boarding school, Maria sat at Father’s right and I at his left. Isabella and our youngest sister, Paola, flanked Mamma at the foot of the table. Little Vincenzo was already in bed.
Father said to Mamma, “Our daughters will need new gowns for the reception for Governor von Traun.”
Mamma paused, holding a forkful of risotto in midair. Gray shadows haunted her eyes. The baby she carried seemed a greater burden than Vincenzo had been. Or perhaps she’d been having troubling dreams again. Mamma had the gift of prescienza—prophetic dreams. She’d foreseen the Sardinian invasion weeks before the forces descended upon the city. And she’d predicted the return of the Hapsburgs almost to the day, a good three years in advance.
“I have already ordered new gowns for Christmas,” she said to Father. “The girls can wear them for the reception, too.” Mamma put the risotto in her mouth.
“No, they cannot.” Father’s brows knitted together. “Maria and Emilia will be under the scrutiny of not only the new governor but also Milan’s highest aristocracy. I will not have them seen wearing the same gowns twice in a fortnight.”
Mamma took her time chewing. Finally, she said, “As you wish, Husband. I merely thought to spare the extra expense.”
“Consider it an investment in our future,” Father said. “In order to be admitted to the ranks of the nobility, we must demonstrate that we belong among them.” Father seemed more anxious than ever to become a don. I wondered if it had something to do with the new governor’s arrival.
Sitting beside Maria, Paola asked, “When we’re nobility, will I be a princess?”
I couldn’t help smiling. Five-year-old Paola was obsessed with tales of princes and princesses.
“I want to be a princess, too,” Isabella piped up next to me. “Then I’ll wear the loveliest gowns and precious jewels in my hair and …”
Mamma silenced Isabella with a look then gave Paola a tired smile. “You are already my princess, dear.”
Paola beamed at Mamma.
“Do not encourage her childishness,” Father said.
“But she is a child,” Mamma said. “How would you have me treat her?” Mamma was careful to keep her tone respectful, but anger flashed in her blue-gray eyes.
“You must answer her earnestly, yet in terms she can understand. Like so.” Father said to Paola, “Regarding your question, Daughter, when we are nobility, you will not be a princess, you will be a lady.”
“A lady?” Paola scrunched her forehead. “But Signor Padre, how can I be a lady when I’m only five?”
I covered my mouth to keep from giggling, as did Isabella beside me. Across from us, Maria looked down at the risotto on her plate to hide her own amusement.
Father, however, was not amused. “You are confusing the title ‘Lady’ with the word for ‘woman.’”
“I still don’t understand.” Paola turned back to Mamma. “What’s the difference?”
“The main difference,” Mamma said, “is how people address you. If we become nobility—”
“Not ‘if, ’” Father interrupted. “When.”
“Very well,” Mamma said. “When we become nobility, the servants will have to address you as ‘my lady’ instead of ‘Miss’ as they do now.”
Father drew up his neck. “There’s much more to it! Being nobility means commanding greater respect not only from those beneath us but from those above us as well. After I am made a nobleman, those in authority will esteem me in a way they do not now.”
“Yes, of course,” Mamma said. “But Paola is too young to understand all that.”
“Ha!” Father said. I’m sure he would have gone on if the kitchen maid hadn’t come in just then.
***
As I lay in bed beside Maria that night, I wondered just how my life would be different if, or as Father said, when we became nobility. We already lived in a fine palazzo filled with lovely furnishings. We had liveried servants who drove us about in our own carriage. And we were being educated by the best tutors in the city.
One difference might have to do with our clothing, as Fath
er had suggested at supper. I closed my eyes and pictured the noblewomen who attended Mass at the Basilica. They dressed in the latest Parisian fashions and wore an abundance of gems and pearls, as did their daughters. Their husbands and sons were always elegantly attired, too.
It suddenly occurred to me: If I were a noble donna, Father would betroth me to a don, unless he sent me off to a convent first.
All the times I’d imagined my future husband, I’d simply pictured him as tall, with brown hair and eyes. I’d never considered he might be a nobleman. Of course, I wouldn’t mind if he were a nobleman as long as he loved music as I did.
I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness. I was getting ahead of myself. First, I had to impress the new governor with my performance on Epiphany. The maestro had already sent over three new saltarelli for me to learn, with a note saying they were popular as dance pieces in Venice. He’d chosen them particularly with Governor von Traun in mind—the governor was said to favor lively music. If that was true, then mastering the saltarelli could be the key to winning his approval, and Father’s with it.
But the quick tempo and challenging fingerings of the pieces wouldn’t be easy to perfect. And I had only a few weeks.
Chapter Four: Palazzo Riccardi
Snow muffled the clomp-clomp-clomp of the horses’ hooves as we rode to Palazzo Riccardi the evening of Epiphany. Maria and I sat in silence across from Father. Mamma was feeling unwell and had stayed home in bed. I’m ashamed to say that in my anxiety about my performance, I gave little thought to Mamma’s health.
Cold seeped into the carriage. Even with all my layers of clothing—a wool cape, velvet gown, and silk petticoats, I felt chilled. I pressed against Maria for warmth. Thankfully, we didn’t have far to travel.
At the palazzo, our carriage was greeted by a footman wearing gray livery adorned with the red and white stripes of the Riccardi coat of arms. Banners fluttering on either side of the doorway bore the actual arms—a golden lion on a field of red and white stripes. The same image was carved in stone above the door. How many generations of Riccardis had lived here? We were the first Salvinis in our home, and since we weren’t nobility, we had no coat of arms.
The footman held the palazzo’s massive oak door open for us. In the front hallway, a presepio stood on an immense table. The baby Jesus in the manger was surrounded by porcelain figures of the Blessed Mother, her husband Joseph, shepherds, and the three wise men. An angel wearing a blue sash sat atop the stable’s roof. The star hanging above the angel gleamed in the candlelight. My eyes widened. The star appeared to be made of gold!
After handing my cloak to a manservant, I brushed the snow from the hem of my skirts. My new velvet gown was a rich mahogany color, with a bodice of green and gold swirls embroidered on a cream background. My dark skirts contrasted sharply with Maria’s rose-colored ones, but the lighter hue suited her better, bringing life to her pale cheeks.
The manservant held up a large candelabrum to light our way. He led us up a marble staircase twice as wide as our main stairway at home. At the top of the stairs, we turned right. Candlelight danced in beautiful crystal wall sconces as we proceeded down the broad corridor.
When we reached the end of the hallway, I heard someone tuning a violin. I didn’t know other musicians would be performing today. My mouth went dry. What if their musical ability surpassed mine?
The servant showed us into a vast salon lit by three massive chandeliers. Candles in wall sconces added to the light here, too, as did the trio of blazing fireplaces. I couldn’t help thinking: This is how nobility lives.
The servant bowed. “Lord Riccardi will be with you shortly.”
Father had arranged for our early arrival so I could practice on the Riccardis’ harpsichord. I was surprised, then, to see two men dressed in black standing in the corner. To my relief, I realized one was Maestro Tomassini. The other was nearly as thin as the maestro but considerably shorter. He held a violin in his left hand.
Father crossed the room quickly. Maria and I followed. “Maestro Tomassini,” Father said, with a slight bow. “You are here early.”
As the maestro bowed to Father, the other man turned toward us. He looked young, close to my own age, in fact. The old-fashioned style of both his suit and his white wig had made him appear older. Perhaps that had been his intent.
“Signor Salvini,” Maestro said to Father. “I wanted to give my nephew here the opportunity to become familiar with the room’s acoustics.” Maestro Tomassini actually smiled as he put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Allow me to present my sister’s son, Antonio Bellini, one of my best students.” I bristled at the maestro’s words. He never said anything like that about me.
Bellini tucked his violin under his arm and bowed stiffly to Father. “A pleasure to meet you, Signor Salvini.” The young man’s posture contradicted his statement. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look up after completing his bow.
“Bellini?” Father said. “Any relation to Marquis don Vittore Bellini?”
At the marquis’s name, Antonio Bellini raised his chin, but he still didn’t meet Father’s eyes. “He is my father’s uncle.”
Bellini’s square, cleft chin did indeed give him a noble air. I wondered if his stiff posture meant he thought his family better than ours. Perhaps he would be inheriting his great-uncle’s title and was already practicing to be the next Marquis Bellini. That could explain his aloof manners but not his attire. I’d expect a wealthy nobleman to wear something more like Father’s charcoal-gray velvet jacket, which was cut in the longer Parisian fashion.
Father introduced Maria and me. Bellini bowed to us both. When his gaze met mine, I was struck by his eyes—I’d never met anyone with eyes such a vivid blue, the color of Lake Como on a clear summer day. I felt myself drawn in, wanting to know what lay in their depths. I saw pride and sadness and something else. What was it?
“Come, Girl,” the maestro said, breaking the spell. “There’s no time to waste.” He gestured toward the harpsichord in the center of the room. “I’ve already tuned the instrument, but its feel is quite different from what you’re accustomed.”
The harpsichord looked finer than ours. I guessed its reddish-brown frame was made of cherry wood. The inside of the lid bore a painting of gods and goddesses in long white robes dining at a banquet table set on an emerald green hillside. Carvings of nymphs picking flowers adorned the side panels.
As I sat down at the keyboard, my stomach lurched. Would I even be able to play such an instrument?
Then I noticed the inscription just above the keys: MUSICA LIETA DONO DIVINO. I knew enough Latin to translate: Joyful music is a divine gift. I took the words as a good omen, given the joyful saltarelli I’d be playing today. My stomach relaxed a bit. I sat down and played a C-major chord. The clear, pure sound filled the air. But the maestro was right—the keys felt tighter than I was used to.
Father led Maria to the far end of the salon to listen to her recitation once more. In the opposite corner, Antonio Bellini warmed up on his violin.
I said to Maestro Tomassini, “I didn’t know another musician would be performing today.”
“My nephew’s presence is of little consequence to you. He will provide some light entertainment while the guests arrive.” The maestro pointed his long chin at the keyboard as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”
I began with a series of scales and chords. It took some time to get the feel of the harpsichord and the acoustics of the vast room. I worked through all the pieces I’d be playing. Despite the familiarity of the music, I fumbled a bit. With Bellini playing so proficiently in the background, my mistakes seemed magnified.
“Bah!” the maestro said. “If you don’t do better than that, you’ll embarrass us both, Girl.”
The scornful way he said girl hit me like a splash of cold water. I can do this, I told myself. I must do this to prove myself to Father.
I began again. When I came to the middle of my program, I
stopped and did my vocal warm-ups then accompanied myself as I practiced singing the Magnificat. I rehearsed the remaining pieces, ending with the saltarelli. Finally, I ran through the whole program once more without stopping.
I looked up. Maestro Tomassini was frowning. “Music is more than precision, Girl.”
I resisted the urge to smile. His words were a compliment of sorts. They meant I’d played adequately. Now I needed to work only on expressing the emotion within the music.
But I was out of time. Count Riccardi and his family had arrived.
Chapter Five: Governor von Traun
Count Riccardi had a round face matched by an even rounder belly. Despite his size, he carried himself with the air of a true nobleman. Today he wore a burgundy-colored suit embroidered in a floral pattern of peach and pale green. A fashionable white powdered wig covered his head. Countess Riccardi, unlike her husband, was quite slender. She too was elegantly dressed, in a pale green gown that perfectly complemented the count’s suit. I stood and curtsied.
“Ah, Signorina Salvini,” the count said. “I don’t believe you know my children. Allow me to present you to my son, Lord Raffaele, and my daughter, Lady Gabriella.”
I curtsied again. Lord Raffaele bowed politely. He was taller than his father and nearly as thin as his mother. He wore a dark gray suit trimmed in the same burgundy as the count’s. Lord Raffaele’s wig was dark brown and tied back in a queue.
Lady Gabriella, who favored her father, had on a beautiful brocade of red and gold. I felt grateful Father had insisted on my having a new gown. Otherwise, I might have looked shabby beside such a bright bird.
The maestro called his nephew over to the harpsichord. Father and Maria joined us, too. Count Riccardi went through more introductions then asked Maria about her current studies.
Lady Gabriella pulled me aside. She immediately began twittering away about how happy she was to be home for the holidays—she was usually off at a convent school where the nuns “kept her under lock and key.”
Playing by Heart Page 3
