Signora Da Vinci by Robin Maxwell Read Free Book Online Page A

stories high, a large portion of it was devoted to a grain mill inside, driven by a cleverly designed waterwheel on the outside. On one side stretching far down the hill was a long, narrow olive orchard whose trees now, in high summer, were bursting with plump green fruit. The back wall of the main enclosure was, indeed, the ancient Vinci Castle bulwark, but the whole of its large gardens and its several outbuildings were enclosed by shorter but still-sturdy masonry walls.
    The front gate was imposing, two high wooden doors, crossed and studded with iron fittings, proclaiming that the family inside was important and prosperous.
    The gate was firmly shut.
    I wished to pound on it and cry out Piero’s name, but even in my desperate state I knew that to be a fatal mistake. A future wife of this house must be dignified, not some mad shrieking creature.
    I stood there pretending serenity, praying that a family member or servant would exit or enter. I would calmly ask them of Piero’s whereabouts. But with no one coming or going I found myself pacing, blowing up little clouds of dust around my feet.
    The sun was beginning to set. I could not stand here in the dark. I must act!
    I picked my way around the perimeter of the wall till I reached the olive orchard. I chose my target. There was a huge ancient tree so close to the compound wall that it overhung the garden.
    I hiked up my skirts and climbed it.
    Protected from sight by the gray-green leaves of the olive tree, I peered down into the yard. Little was happening. Just a few chickens scratching in the dirt, a stable boy carrying tack into the barn. No one I recognized as family was anywhere to be seen.
    I pounded the tree trunk with frustration, crying out at the pain.
    “Caterina?” I heard a man say from below.
    My heart leapt. I looked down, only to sink with the gravest disappointment at seeing not the da Vinci heir, but Francesco.
    “What are you doing up there?” he asked. “Come down. You’ll hurt yourself.”
    I allowed myself to be helped from the tree, trying to regain something of my dignity. Finally we were face-to-face. The brothers resembled each other, I thought, though Piero was taller, and Francesco’s features were softer, sweeter.
    “Do you know where Piero is?” I finally managed to utter with something resembling calm.
    “I do, Caterina. He is in Florence.”
    “Florence!” My calm shattered instantly. “How can he be in Florence? He was meant to come to my father’s house this morning to ask him for my hand.”
    “I know,” Francesco said.
    He knew! It was no secret then. All the family must have known of our plans.
    “Why did he go without coming to tell me?” I demanded. “When is he coming back?”
    Francesco looked stricken. “He will not be coming back for some time.” Francesco paused to collect his words. “My father . . . our father . . . is very angry at him. They quarreled.”
    “They quarreled over me,” I said, feeling the skin on my arms rise in gooseflesh.
    He nodded.
    “Last night, Piero announced his intention to marry you.”
    I smiled, heartened at that, even though I knew it would be the only good news I would hear from Francesco.
    “Father told Piero he was dreaming if he thought he would be allowed to marry . . .” He grimaced as he said, “. . . the likes of you.”
    “The likes of me,” I repeated.
    “They are not my words, Caterina, and if you do not wish me to go on . . .”
    “No! I want you to tell me everything.” I clutched at his arm. “Everything.”
    This he did, with as much gentleness as he possessed in his gentle soul. But nothing could soften the knife edge as it sliced through me with every callous, offensive sentiment. What could Piero have been thinking? My family was nothing, my father a minor tradesman who took his payment in duck eggs. Piero was meant for much better than a poor village girl. When he married—to a girl his father and grandfather would choose for him—it would be