Jeanne Kalogridis - The Scarlet Contessa

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 revealed to anyone. Somehow I knew that Matteo would understand.

“See those stars.” I pointed up at the sky. “And the wisps of clouds beside them. Together, they make an upside-down numeral four.”

Matteo noted them and looked sharply at me. “They do,” he said.

“It’s a man, do you see? He’s upside down—and his one leg is bent and crossed over the straight one, to make the four.”

“The hanged man,” he whispered. I could not read his tone.

“Well, perhaps,” I said, relaxing my focus and letting my imagination roam. “Perhaps, if one slipped a rope over his ankle and dangled him upside down, and he bent one knee . . . Matteo, that man is you.”

I looked back at him to see his reaction. I expected him to smile and think it was a fanciful little joke. But he was studying me with the same intensity he turned on his ciphers.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

I looked back at the hanged man, and was filled with sudden dread. Some very bad things were going to happen, but they would bring about great good. Good that Matteo would heartily approve of.

“Changes are coming,” I said truthfully. I could not bring myself to say that they would be unbearably hard.

It was a warm night, but the breeze stirred as I spoke. He shivered slightly, and composed himself.

“How often do you see these . . . signs, Dea?”

“They’re everywhere,” I answered, heartened by the fact that he did not scoff. “I just notice them at some times more than others. But they are always true.” I hesitated. “Bona would say this was from the Devil.”

“Bona would be wrong,” he said, more quickly than I think he wanted to, for he stopped himself and remained silent for a moment. “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”

“No one. I hoped you might understand.”

“I do. And you should never, ever speak of this to Bona or anyone else.” He paused. “It’s not from the Devil. But some people think it is, and that makes it dangerous to discuss. People have been killed for less.”

“I’ll speak of it only to you.”

“I would appreciate that—if you see something you think I should know about.” His tone warmed. “You must be who you are, Dea, and must never stifle such a talent. But only you and I should know.”

I smiled, pleased that my husband and I shared a secret.

He glanced back up at the sky. I took advantage of the moment to reach up and press my hand to his warm cheek. He smiled down at me, but upon seeing the look in my eye, drew away, and went back to the others.

I was, however, not easily discouraged. In those days my chaste pecks upon waking and retiring began to stray from his cheek toward his lips. I remarked on the fine appearance he made, on my great good luck of having him for a husband, on my constant gratitude for his kindness. When he worked too long past midnight, I would go to him and set my cheek upon his shoulder and plead sweetly for him to join me in bed. I yearned for yet feared his touch.