Madonna of the Seven Hills by Jean Plaidy Read Free Book Online Page B

because she was a widow, mourning her husband in the Spanish manner, must do so from earthenware.
    Lucrezia leaned on the table, the top of which was made of marble and colored pieces of wood, and said: “Dear Madonna Adriana, you are still very unhappy because you are a widow. I know, because my mother was unhappy when Giorgio di Croce died. She wept and talked of her unhappiness, and then she felt better.”
    Adriana straightened the long black veil which flowed over her shoulder. “I would not talk of my grief,” she said. “In Spain we say it is ill-mannered to show one’s grief to the world.”
    “But we are not the world—Orsino and I,” persisted Lucrezia. “And my mother …”
    “Your mother was an Italian woman. It will be well if you forget your Italian birth. In Spain to share a pleasure is a good thing because in sharing what is good one gives something worth having. To share one’s sorrow is to beg that one’s burden shall be partly carried by another. Spaniards are too proud to ask favors.”
    The matter was closed. Lucrezia blushed over her plate. She had much to learn, she realized. She was sorry she had spoken, and now she looked pleadingly at Orsino for comfort; but he was not looking at her. Orsino was one of the few people who did not admire her yellow hair and pretty face. She might have been one of the ornamental chairs, of which there were so many in the principal rooms of the palace, for all the notice he took of her.
    Adriana was looking severe, and Lucrezia feared that she would always disappoint her because she was such a good woman and thought always of doing what was right.
    Later that day, as she and Adriana sat together working on an altar cloth, Adriana said: “You will soon have a companion to share your dancing and music lessons.”
    Lucrezia dropped the gold thread and waited breathlessly.
    “I am to have a daughter,” said Adriana.
    “Oh, but … a daughter! I thought …” Lucrezia at nine years of age was knowledgeable. She had seen certain sights from the house on the piazza; she had listened to the talk of her brothers and the servants. It seemed incredible that the pious widow could have a daughter.
    Adriana was looking at her in surprise, and Lucrezia flushed again.
    “My son is of a marriageable age,” said Adriana coldly. “His bridewill soon be coming here. She will live with us as my daughter until the marriage takes place.”
    Lucrezia picked up her needle and began to work, hoping to hide her embarrassment. “That will be pleasant, Madonna Adriana,” she said, but she felt sorry for the girl who would be married to Orsino.
    “Orsino,” said Adriana as though reading her thoughts, “is one of the best matches in Rome.”
    “Is Orsino happy?” asked Lucrezia. “Is he dancing with joy because he is to have a bride?”
    “Orsino has been brought up as a Spanish nobleman. They, my dear Lucrezia, do not jump for joy like any Italian shepherd on the Campo di Fiore.”
    “Assuredly they do not, Madonna Adriana.”
    “He will be happy. He knows his duty. He must marry and have sons.”
    “And the bride.…”
    “You will soon see her. I shall teach her as I do you.”
    Lucrezia continued to stitch, thinking of the companion she was to have. She hoped the bride would not mind too much … having to marry Orsino.

    Lucrezia waited in the great dark room in which, because this was a special occasion, the tapestries had been hung.
    They were gathered to greet the girl who was being brought to her new home, and Lucrezia wondered how she was feeling. She would quickly try to reassure her for she would be a little frightened perhaps. Lucrezia herself knew how alarming it could be to be taken from one’s home to an entirely different place.
    Orsino stood beside his mother. Adriana had talked severely to him of his duty and poor Orsino looked more sallow than ever in his Spanish black, and not at all like a bridegroom-to-be; his squint was more distressing