Free O, Juliet by Robin Maxwell Page A

seethe.
    “I have a gift for you,” Elena Rinaldi said, drawing the conversation onto pleasanter ground and pushing a small wrapped box toward her hostess. When the rest of us began speaking excitedly, Mona Ginetta pushed back her chair with a decisive scrape and stood. To Chaterina she said, “I will leave you to your guests.” In a moment she was thankfully gone, but her leave had not purged the room of darkness. We were horribly aware that this shrew stood at the center of Chaterina’s future.
    And all I could think of was Allessandra Strozzi.
    “Dare we ask about the wedding night?” Maria piped in, keeping her voice low. Antonio might come from a boorish family, but he was half the age of Maria’s betrothed.
    I did not think Chaterina’s face could fall any further, but I was wrong. She pushed her lips tight together to keep from crying, but tears still sprang to her eyes. “Awful,” she managed.
    Lucrezia reached out and placed a hand on Chaterina’s.
    “I was afraid,” she went on, “and I told him so . . . expecting that he would . . . be gentle.” She hid her face in her cupped hands. “He was not. He pounded hard. Went on and on. It seemed like forever.”
    It pained me to hear her continue, for I knew I had no bright banter to buoy her, no advice to share.
    “It hurt. Terribly,” she said, her voice cracking. “Then he . . .” She hesitated. “. . . pulled away. Out. He was angry. Disgusted. Told me I was ‘dry.’ Told me I had hurt him .”
    Chaterina went silent then, and we were all still, battered by her account.
    “I have just the thing,” Constanza Marello suddenly said.
    What in heaven’s name could the Spinster of Florence have to offer the miserable newlywed?
    “I have four sisters,” she went on. “All married. They talk among themselves. Endlessly. About what goes on . . . under the sheets.” She leered so lasciviously we broke into laughter, and the unhappy spell was shattered. Constanza beckoned to us and we leaned in to the center of the table. “There is an oil they use . . . for lubrication. My eldest sister’s husband is endowed like a stallion, she tells us. This oil ‘eases the passage.’ ”
    A hopeful smile played on Chaterina’s lips. “Could you get me some?” she said, then added with a conspiratorial grin, “Though I shall never have to worry about a horse-sized cazzo . More like a billy goat.”
    Everyone roared at that, and the evening went on in much better cheer.
    Later, Lucrezia and I stood outside waiting for our litters to be brought around. It was a mild evening that reminded me of another such night.
    “Why are you smiling like that?” she asked me.
    I hesitated before answering. “He came to my balcony.”
    “Oh no . . . Juliet!”
    “It was lovely, Lucrezia. He was a perfect gentleman.”
    “Alone on your garden balcony in the middle of the night?”
    I said nothing.
    “And you would therefore have been in your shift?”
    “With a robe.”
    She made a huffing sound.
    “It’s all right, Lucrezia.”
    “It is not all right. Nothing has changed.You are soon to be betrothed to another man. The Monticecco and the Capelletti are still enemies.”
    “I know that. And I know how these things are. Have always been. But suddenly it occurs to me—a strange thought perhaps—that people who love each other should marry each other. That this is how it should be.”
    Lucrezia stared at me as though I were raving, then said, “You’re always going on about Dante and Beatrice and their great romance. But in truth, he barely spoke to her. His love was in his head. In his breast. In his verse. And that was enough.”
    “It’s not enough for me!”
    Lucrezia shook her head sharply. “Dear God, could you have found any young man less suitable for this . . . this . . .”
    “Affair of the heart,” I finished for her.
    “How can it end well?”
    “End well!” I cried. “Has Chaterina’s arranged marriage ended well?” I faced Lucrezia