The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

he finally looked into my eyes. “I love you more than anyone else in all the world, Dea,” he said fiercely. “And I vow to protect you from harm and care for you tenderly. I am your truest friend, but I can never be more than that. Do you understand?”

      “Yes,” I said. “You don’t fancy women, then.”

      He let go a short, unhappy laugh. “It’s not that at all. It’s . . . simply a very complicated situation. The time will come soon, though, when I can explain why things must be so. But for now, I ask you to trust me. And one more thing . . .”

      I lifted an expectant brow.

      “For your sake, and mine, we must pretend that we have consummated our marriage. It is the safest course. Could you do that, Dea, knowing that I love you and want only the best for you?”

      His words and eyes radiated compassion; I imagined I heard honest anguish in his tone. Even so, my temper flared. He was lying about preferring women to men, I decided, because it was a mortal sin and one that, discovered, could lead to his disgrace and even death. Yet I was furious that he would not trust me with the truth. He had said we were true friends.

      I dropped his hand, picked up the feather pillow beside me, and, with all my strength, struck him hard in the face with it. Then I flung myself down on the bed, turned my back to him, and lay there a few minutes before my indignation yielded to tears. Even now, I am not sure why I cried so abruptly and bitterly; I should have been relieved.

      When he lay down beside me and put his arm around my shoulder, I did not pull away. We passed the whole night thus.

      My pride was wounded, but I quickly recovered. After all, I now had something I had never known before: a family, even if it consisted only of Matteo. For the first time I truly belonged to someone else, and he belonged to me. And I did not, like all other women, crave children—in fact, I privately thought it cruel to bring a new soul into such a wicked world. I enjoyed Matteo’s company, and resolved to live contentedly with him without relations.

      Resolutions are such feeble things.

      I had expected to love him as I might a friend, a brother. I had not expected that he would be ever thoughtful of me, that he would daily do me small kindnesses, bring me small gifts, take joy in my delight. I had not expected that I would lie in his bed pretending to sleep while he worked late at the small trestle desk in his chambers; I had not expected the way the lamplight would paint his skin golden, would cause shadows to nestle in the hollows of his cheeks and throat, would spark glints of copper in his hair.

      During the days he worked upstairs in the men’s wing with Cicco and the rest of the clerical staff while I spent the time with Bona. At night, he worked alone, in our chamber, on the most secret projects. I was proud that Cicco had entrusted the most delicate matters to him, even at the same time that I was annoyed that Cicco overworked him so. Matteo was discreet: he never discussed his work, nor left the papers out where I could see them. Sometimes he read; most of the time, he wrote and wrote. When he was finished, he gathered his papers together and quietly placed them in a compartment hidden in the wainscoting, which he locked; the key hung from a leather thong about his neck.

      Once I passed by while he was working at his desk and failed to avert my gaze in time. I got a glimpse of cipher rendered in Matteo’s even hand. It was a beautiful creation, a tapestry of numbers and Latin letters and mathematical symbols, elegantly woven upon the page without space or punctuation. I tried to forget what I had seen, but that was impossible—like Matteo, I was good at keeping secrets, too. Only Bona, who had taught me my letters, knew the truth: that once I saw something in writing, in my native tongue or French or Latin, I could not forget it. Bona was scandalized that God should have given a woman such a useless gift; at her urging, I kept my talent to myself.

      I hid it from Matteo, too, for it comforted me to have him there as I fell asleep; I did not want him to worry I might be too curious.

      Not long after we were married, I woke one night to find the lamplight blue and sputtering, and Matteo still in his chair. He had put away his work and was sitting up very straight, his arms by his sides. His eyes were closed, his face utterly relaxed; the corners of his lips were faintly turned up in the most beatific of smiles. Dreaming, I thought, and I stirred, thinking to rise and lead him to bed, but the instant I moved, his eyes opened slowly. He had been full awake.

      “I thought you were asleep,” I said, startled.

      “I was just thinking,” he said, as if that were explanation enough. His eyes were extraordinarily bright and loving. “If you don’t mind, I would like to think for a bit longer.”

      “Suit yourself.” I rolled back over, but I could not go back to sleep; I kept thinking of the look on his face.

      In all dealings with me Matteo was patient, in all dealings kind. I saw his anger only once, one evening when his master Cicco kicked open our chamber door and hurled Matteo inside. As Matteo struck the floor full force, I yelped and ran to him. His upper lip was split and bleeding, his left eye swelling shut. I put my arms about his shoulders and pulled him up to sitting; trembling with rage, he pushed me away and tried to get to his feet, but Cicco moved quickly into the room and kicked him back down.

      “Fool!” Cicco barked. He was forty years Matteo’s senior and gray-haired, but stout and tall as an oak. “Are you thinking to get yourself killed? Stay here and soak your head in cold water until you can think clearly!”

      With that, Cicco turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

      I fussed over Matteo and cleaned the blood away. His front tooth had been chipped on the outside edge, his upper lip was split at the same spot as his childhood scar, and the tender skin around his eye was badly bruised. I asked a gentle question as to the cause of the fight, but Matteo was too troubled to speak for hours. I suspected that he had probably seen a woman being dragged through the loggia, and tried to intervene. After all those years of working for the duke, he should have known better.

      We did not speak that night; I helped him undress and turned down the covers for him, but he would not go to bed. Nor did he bring out his papers to work; instead, he sat at his desk and stared straight ahead at the wainscoting.

      It was well after midnight when I woke to see the lamp still burning, and Matteo still in his chair. His eyes—the one swollen and an alarming shade of purple now—were closed, and his expression was, if not blissful, then at least serene.

      “What do you do in that chair?” I asked softly.

      He drew in a long breath and released it with a faintly shuddering sigh. “I try,” he said, “to see things as they really are.”

      There was something surprisingly optimistic in his tone. Barefoot, I went to him and blew out the lamp, then led him to bed. He slept with his arm around my shoulder. We did not speak of the fight with Cicco again, but I watched day after day as the swelling of his upper lip gradually retreated, leaving behind a thicker scar.

      The months of our marriage passed quickly. July left, and August came; at every feast day, every wedding, Matteo and I sat together and danced, beaming as newlyweds ought. We blushed at jokes about the conjugal relations we were surely enjoying, and answered questions about the possible arrival of children with smiles and shrugs.

      I began to fall in love. I had not meant to; I had not believed that any man could be as kind as Bona, or as gentle, or as able to put my needs before his. I blamed Matteo for my feelings. I would not have come to love him so much had he not gazed on me so often with such genuine affection, and I saw, from close daily observation, that he did not favor men over women.

      What, then, kept him from my arms?

      By late August, I began to experiment with small signs of affection. When the entire court celebrated the end of summer with an outdoor picnic, I held his hand after the dances had ended, and led him to a pond on the edges of the duke’s hunting park. The moon was waxing fat and reflected in the dark, still water; I drew his attention upward, to the glittering diamond sky, and pointed at a cluster of stars.

      And I shared with Matteo something I had never