An Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady by Jackie Walton
A few miles down the road, a church perched on a small hill near the road came into view on Chiara’s side of the carriage. Happy people flowed out of the door and down to the road.
Francesca leaned over Chiara. “Oh, a wedding!” She leaned a hand on Chiara’s leg and waved zestfully with the other. “Aguri, aguri!” she yelled.
Francesca’s shout drowned out Chiara’s groan of pain. Her eyes widened and crossed before Rafaelle assisted Francesca back to her seat. Chiara drew a deep breath, prepared to thank her leg’s savior, when a mass of vegetation flew through the window and landed on Chiara’s lap. Paolo laughed and waved to the wedding party. “Grazia mille!”
Amused confusion showed on Rafaelle’s face. He poked at the gaily tied bundle. “Rosemary, chive flowers, thyme, um…”
“Oregano, bay, and basil,” Chiara finished as she examined greenery.
“Was this the bride’s bouquet?” he sounded incredulous. “It looks like it belongs in the kitchen.”
“Of course,” Paolo said. “The herbs are said to keep away evil spirits. Catching it is good luck.”
Francesca touched Chiara’s arm and muttered something.
Rafaelle looked at Chiara, waiting for a translation.
“She said that I’m going to be married soon.” Chiara shook her head and smiled at the cook.
Paolo leaned forward. “Chiara, my love, don’t dash her hopes. You know that Francesca’s fondest hope is to see you married.” He spoke, rapid-fire, to Francesca. That worthy clasped her hands to her breast and replied.
Chiara looked at Rafaelle. “These two are plotting to get me married off so Francesca can make my wedding dress. In Italy, a bride doesn’t have anything to do with the construction of her dress and doesn’t even try it all on at once.”
Francesca interjected again.
“She wants to be the one to set the last stitch in my dress: you finish the dress the day of your wedding.”
“Francesca seems to have your future planned out for you.” Rafaelle observed. “Do you have any say in it?”
Chiara gave a brief laugh. Paolo smiled. “All we want is your happiness, cara.”
“Que sera, sera. Other things take precedence right now.”
They stopped at an inn just south of Bologna for lunch. The driver arranged a change of horses. Paolo and Francesca went into the inn to order lunch for the group. Chiara opted to walk around to stretch her legs. Rafaelle joined her.
“Whew, is she ever quiet?”
Chiara laughed. “Rarely, but she’s harmless.”
“She’s desperate to see you married.”
“She’ll survive the disappointment.”
“I get the impression that Paolo would be delighted to assist her in that goal.”
Chiara looked sideways at him as they walked around the dusty stable yard. “Paolo lost his wife last year, and he’s looking for another. Last night, Graziella broached the possibility, very delicately, of course, of me taking on the job. I turned her down, very delicately, of course.”
“Of course,” he poked at a rock with his cane. “Tell me; are you a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft?”
“Mary…oh no! I have nothing against marriage, although I do agree with her Vindication of the Rights of Women that women need to be educated to be more than merely ornaments on a man’s arm. Education would impel women to take on many of the rights and duties that are seen as exclusively male now.”
He thought for a moment, “Are you saying that women should be equal to men?”
She pursed her lips. “Men are physically stronger than women; that’s not in dispute. If women were educated as men are, they could explore many of those provinces that are considered exclusively masculine.”
“Like say…voting or fighting.”
“I fight.”
“Yes, but women generally have an excess of sensibility that makes them unsuitable for complicated matters such as politics.”
“And the good yeoman on my estate who can barely read or write is more suitable to choose members of Parliament than I am?” she snorted. “Is the fop who cares only about the folds of his cravat any more qualified than the girl making her come-out who can only giggle and smile coyly because that’s all she knows? Education is the key, for men and women.”
“I’ve never thought of it quite that way, but I still quail at the thought of Lady Jersey making public policies.” Lady Sarah “Silence” Jersey was the wife of an influential member of the House of Lords. She’d earned her sarcastic nickname.
She turned to him. “You think she doesn’t?” They reached the edge of the courtyard and turned back toward the inn.
From the road, two men approached. Roughly dressed, they made Paulo’s peasant clothes look like Parisian fashions. Skin showed through the rips, and a generous layer of grime obscured whatever color the fabrics ever had. They stopped a few yards in and stared at Chiara and Rafaelle, nudging each other and whispering.
Rafaelle lowered his voice, “’Ware strange sails to port.”
“I see,” she replied, her voice equally low. “Let’s go eat. Paolo should have organized some lunch by now. This may be an excellent inn, but the climate out here has degenerated badly.”
They walked quickly inside, where the innkeeper directed them to a private parlor. The driver, Antonio, an old man with a pock-marked face, joined them, but said little. Francesca filled her plate with meats and bread and fruit before joining him at the end of the table where she began an exacting critique of his driving. Antonio glanced at her then attacked his meat with single-minded attention.
Chiara, Rafaelle, and Paolo also filled their plates and sat down. Paolo appropriated the place next to Chiara. He proceeded to cut her meat and pour her wine, which he did with great flourish. “Only the best for my heart’s delight!”
“Paolo, please,” Chiara begged.
“Yes, Paolo, please.” Rafaelle’s echo held none of the gentle remonstrance of Chiara’s request.
“The truth is never a bad thing, my dearest.”
“Paolo,” she warned, “basta!” Enough.
“But my own…”
“Enough!”
He smiled. “I won’t embarrass you in front of your companion.”
“We didn’t get to finish our conversation in the courtyard,” Rafaelle drawled. Chiara could see the light of evil genius in his eyes. Perhaps it was just as well. “I believe Miss Wollstonecraft adjures marriage at least partly because of the legal ramifications that you pointed out earlier. So why do women marry? Paolo, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”
Paolo sat back with the air of an expert. “Women marry for many reasons. They seek to better their own position or that of their family’s. They make alliances. They want babies.” He shrugged. “My wife’s family, the Benedetto’s, wanted to put an end to the small trade war we were engaged in that was ruining them. It worked, but she died before giving me a son,” his grin had a wicked cast to it, “so we may try to ruin them again.”
“Most practical,” Rafaelle drawled.
“I want to follow my desires this time and marry where I wish, before they can offer me her cousin.” His gaze rested on Chiara. She knew what he wanted, but steadfastly refused to acknowledge it or look at him in any way.
For a moment, it was quiet in the parlor. Rafaelle broke the silence, “I think we need to get going.”
Rafaelle and Paolo stayed to settle the bill. Francesca, Antonio, and Chiara went from the gloom of the inn to the sun-swept courtyard. Antonio strode toward the carriage when Chiara hissed his name. “Come here,” she called softly. He frowned but obeyed. “Let’s wait for the others.”
“Signora, I wish to check the horses before we leave. Excuse me.”
“No, do not look at them, but two of the three men standing near the carriage followed Rafaelle and me back to the inn. I don’t trust them.” Francesca turned and blatantly looked at the men. They all appeared rough and hungry.
Pa
“’Ware sails,” Chiara whispered as she gave her head a slight jerk. “Two of them paid particular attention to us when we walked around,” she explained to Paolo. “Now they have a friend.”
Rafaelle let the way. “Walk far apart,” he said quietly. “Antonio and Francesca, stay behind us. Be prepared.”
The three men pushed away from the wall they leaned on and advanced on Rafaelle and Paolo. Two of them flanked Rafaelle. Chiara folded her arms across her stomach and felt into her sleeve for her knife.
Chapter 11
Almost simultaneously, almost inevitably, the three men drew long knives from their backs. Chiara sighed at the almost predetermined sequence of events.
“What the hell do you want?” Paolo demanded.
The lead man smiled, an incongruous smile with his great, gleaming dagger waving gently in front of him. He addressed Paolo while gesturing with the knife, “Give us your purses, and you can go quietly.”
Rafaelle smiled also. “I don’t think so,” he said in French. The robber’s smile faltered. He might not know the meaning of the words, but when faced with a wolverine’s grin, any sane animal thinks twice. Thinking twice wasn’t enough for the thief. He rushed Rafaelle who lifted his cane with a quick snapping motion. The robber grabbed his bleeding hand but didn’t let go of the knife. Ignoring Chiara, the other man flanking Rafaelle rushed in to engage him. Chiara sprinted up behind the man, grabbing his long, greasy hair while pricking his back with her knife. His rush stopped.
“Drop it,” she said pleasantly. He tried to twist, and her knife insinuated itself further into his back, enough to draw blood. He dropped the knife.
Meanwhile, Paolo parried his opponent’s blade with his own in his left hand. He punched his opponent in the face. The would-be thief plopped on the ground, clutching his bleeding nose.
Rafaelle’s leader proved the most competent, or at least long-lasting, of the three. He switched knife hands. Weaving to avoid the slashing cane, he finally rushed in. Rafaelle, his stroke spent, stepped back and twisted as the man rushed past. Then Rafaelle put a boot in his rear sending him sprawling. The cane’s blade biting at his kidney precluded any further action on the thief’s part.
“Pretty inept, don’t you agree,” Paolo said in English.
“Yes,” Rafaelle replied in French. He glanced over at Chiara, “Get Antonio to call the innkeeper.”
Almost an hour later, safely in the carriage, Francesca’s jabbering about the thieves could have been clucking chickens as far as Chiara was concerned. The innkeeper, justly annoyed at such a blatant attack on his guests in his own courtyard, promised to attend to the miscreants. From his expression, Chiara thought he might administer some rough justice himself and be glad for the opportunity.
Just as Chiara climbed into the carriage, she spotted Antonio taking a swig from a bottle he had under the driver’s bench. She supposed he was entitled to it.
Chiara sat in the carriage and pulled her wool and her needles out to begin her shawl. She would enjoy having a nice souvenir from Italy, even it wasn’t a pleasure trip. Humm, she thought, His Holiness might have use of it since he very well might be escaping with the clothes on his back. Nights on board ship could get chilly.
The carriage jolted along; obviously the Via Emilia needed some maintenance on the north side of Bologna. For several miles the carriage fell silent. No one listened to Francesca, and she eventually ran out of things to say. Finally, she went to sleep. Only the clicking of Chiara’s knitting needles and the rattle of the carriage broke the silence. Paolo picked up the ball of yarn off the seat and began unwinding it for her. Even that paled after a while, and he set it aside. Rafaelle leaned back against the side of the carriage and looked over at Paolo. “You handled yourself well.”
Paolo, looking surprised at the compliment, and slightly affronted, replied, “Why thank you, I guess. Although I suppose it’s to be expected with fencing lessons since…well, slightly after I could walk.”
Rafaelle rubbed at his lower lip with his thumb. “Ah, yes, fencing lessons. The only trouble with those fencing lessons is, one, you didn’t have a sword on you. Two, your opponent wasn’t a paid sparring partner who would have lost his job if he so much as nicked you, and,” Paolo’s face resembled an angry thundercloud, “three, there was no instructor at the side-lines to call a halt when things got too rough. In short, this could well have been a fight to the death. And, yes, you did acquit yourself well.”
“You are an expert?”
Chiara didn’t look up from her knitting. “Yes, Paolo, he is. There is a great deal of difference between a sparring match and fighting for your life. If I were you,” she broke the thought to concentrate momentarily on a stubborn stitch, “I’d accept the compliment of a master a little more...”
“Graciously?” Paolo put in innocently.
“Exactly.”
“Well then,” Paolo took a deep breath and turned to Rafaelle, “I apologize for my ill-thought words and accept your compliment of my skills.”
Rafaelle nodded. “It was an honest compliment.”
Paolo grinned at Chiara and nudged her leg to get her attention. “I was a little busy, myself, but I got the impression that you did an excellent job of covering Rafaelle’s back.”
“Well, it was only two against three, but it seemed a pity to let you two get all the exercise.”
Paolo’s laughter rocked the carriage, waking Francesca who smiled sleepily at her youngling’s amusement before dozing off again.
“She’s already proven her mettle,” Rafaelle said quietly. Chiara looked up to find something more than just acknowledgement of her skills showing in his eyes. “I’d proudly fight at her side anytime, any where.”
“I’m not arguing her proficiency. It’s just that no woman should have to do such things. They should be…knitting.”
“Paolo,” Chiara growled, “I do what I must, just like you and Rafaelle do. To even think of denying me that dishonors me in a way few things can.”
Paolo put up his hands in surrender. “I’m not saying you don’t do it beautifully.” Rafaelle’s mouth held a small smile. “I’m only saying in a perfect world…”
“This isn’t a perfect world,” she concentrated on her knitting.
“Yes, but I still think that women…”
“Paolo,” Rafaelle drawled, “would it make digging this hole you’re intent on any easier if I lent you a shovel?”
Paolo sat back with a huff and drummed his fingers on the window lip. He turned to Rafaelle. “What part of England do you come from? Is it true that Englishmen are as cold as their climate?”
Francesca saw a black cat in Modena when they stopped to change horses. She crowed about their forth-coming good luck.
Chiara knit on, trying to clear her mind of wars and thieves and rescue attempts. Every once in a while she looked up to see Rafaelle watching her, a brooding expression on his face. Paolo slept.
Francesca dozed in the corner of the parlor of the Reggio nel’Emilia inn. Chiara wiped the small remnants of her dinner from her hands.
“Come,” Paolo reached for her hand. “Walk with me. My legs are so stiff from sitting in that carriage hour after hour they could collapse like the Roman Coliseum. Go get your shawl.”
As she left, Rafaelle looked at the younger man. “What are you doing?” He kept his voice soft so as not to be overheard by prying ears. The tone held pure demand.
Paolo picked up one of the oranges left on the table from dinner. He looked at it thoughtfully. “An orange has a bright, thick, bitter skin on it.” He began to peel it. “But when you get down to the meat, the fruit is sweet and juicy, with just enough of a tang to keep you interested.”
He looked over at Rafaelle, a quirk of his head implying he’d just heard the question. “Why, I’m taking Chiara out for a walk to stretch our legs. Something an old friend who know
Paolo grinned widely, setting Rafaelle’s teeth on edge. The dilettante thought he could…
“Let’s go.” Chiara hurried into the room. “It’s been many years since I’ve seen Reggio nell’Emilia.”
Rafaelle watched them leave, gritting his teeth. He wanted to strangle that upstart puppy with his bare hands. “What an arrogant little prick! Just listening to his sophomoric jokes sets my teeth on edge,” he muttered. Flexing his hands on the table, he looked at the single remaining orange. He reached for it and turned it over in his hands, remembering Paolo’s description. Only an idiot would fail to understand that Paolo was talking about Chiara, and Rafaelle never considered himself an idiot.
A rustling in the corner told him Francesca was awake. She started laughing softly, almost a snicker.
“Who will win and who will loose?” she muttered as she waddled to the door. As she opened it, she turned, “I did see a black cat.”
She’s been awake for a long time, he thought as he tossed the orange from one hand to another.
Growing darkness didn’t change the grimy color of the empty public room’s walls. Several empty bottles of wine sat on the table in front of Rafaelle. He’d moved to the corner so he could see the front door. He sat on a bench with his back to the far wall, but declined to lean back against it. In the half hour or so he’d sat there, he’d waved off two whores and an old man who, as best as Rafaelle could understand, promised to be his best friend in return for a bottle of wine. With the changing light, his mood changed from annoyance to concern.
Doesn’t that young idiot know better than to fool around when they had a job to do? No, obviously not. If they don’t get back soon, I’ll have to go out looking for them, and that’s something I’d rather not do. Let’s see, I’ll ask for them first in French, then muck my way through in Italian and hope that somebody…
He sat half-sprawled in the chair when the inn door swung open, but no one entered. He heard voices outside.
“Yes, this is the right one, and no, I don’t want to see the Duomo under the stars.”
Sounds of a brief scuffle and a grunt made Rafaelle look up just before Chiara preceded Paolo into the parlor.