Seven

UV

ITALY

Antonio, there is someone here to see you!”

The horse turned her head and flicked her mane. Antonio was struggling to keep her hoof between his knees as he used a tool to extract a thorn that was making her lame.

“I am busy. I will be there in a little while,” he replied and returned to the task. A shadow fell across the stall and he said tersely, “Luigi, I said I would be there in a moment.”

“I am not Luigi.”

At the familiar baritone, Antonio dropped the hoof and wiped his brow, turning slowly to face the man from his past, unsure of how he should receive his former employer. A thousand memories crowded his mind; a scent, the silken touch of hair across his arm, a laugh, a touch, rejection. He bent his head in deference and then looked Giorgio Giaccopazzi in the eye.

“I am Signore Giaccopazzi, I—”

“I know well who you are, Signore.”

“I have been searching for you for many months.”

Antonio remained silent and kept his gaze steady.

“Do you not wish to know why? Are you not curious?”

“Indeed, sir, I am at a loss to understand your visit. I have not worked for you in over eighteen years. Tell me, to what do I owe this honor?”

“I am sorry to have to tell you that my Isabella is dead. She died of the fever six months ago.”

Antonio wiped his brow again to hide his dismay and give himself time to recover from the freshly unearthed emotions, long buried. “I am sorry to hear this, Signore. She was a beautiful person inside and out, but I still fail to see why you should seek out a former stable boy to tell him this news in person.”

Giorgio looked around for somewhere to sit in the oppressive heat and stench of the stable and, seeing a saddle stand, leaned against it. “There was a child.”

The whispered phrase hung in the air like dandelion seeds caught on the breeze.

Antonio’s defensive demeanor melted away at the staggering news, and he crouched to the floor beneath Giorgio to look up earnestly into his face. “There was a child? Oh, it all makes sense now …” He looked down, ashamed to admit what was already understood, unsure of the motivations of the man before him.

“You did not know?” Giorgio murmured. “Tell me what happened. I wish you no ill. I seek no vengeance. I am a broken man. At one time, I may have whipped you, but I am too old and lonely now.

“Isabella did marry, but she did not have any children. Her mother, as you will recall, died when she was young, and Isabella’s husband died in an accident, and I am now left, a lone man with only my vineyards for company. As Isabella lay dying, she confessed her sin but died before she could tell me any more. I have spent much time and money trying, unsuccessfully, to find the child. And now at last I have found you, only to discover that you did not know.”

Antonio pulled up another saddle stand and looked into the distance, seeing not the fields beyond the stable door but the past. A young maiden his own age, bored, lonely, spirited, and beautiful beyond description, interested in the horses and the people who cared for them.

“She married then? Did he deserve her?”

“He was a good man, a very good man.”

Antonio nodded and gripped his chin for courage. “It all began after she returned from finishing school, Signore. You were much consumed with the vines and the drought, and she came to the stables seeking companionship in the horses, but after I helped her and we spent more time together, we …” His voice trailed off as his mind replayed the memory of the day the line was crossed between servant and served, of returning from a ride and helping Isabella down from her favorite horse. He had held her waist for just a fraction too long, and they had stood too close, breathing, wanting, still, until the magnetism of her drew him in and their lips touched and changed their relationship from that day forth.

He continued after a moment. “She would seek out my company in the stables and would insist that I ride with her. For safety. We would stop in fields full of poppies and talk for hours. She was captivating, and I was merely a man. A young and weak man. She would play the coquette with me, and I would feel anxious about her being so familiar with me, a mere servant, but she seemed genuinely to enjoy my company. I was flattered, I confess.

“And then one day I realized that I had fallen in love with her, and the next time we were alone, it was as though a barrier had broken down and I succumbed. I tried to feel guilty, but I was so full of love for her and so happy. I thought not of the morrow but lived only for the moment.

“Then one day she came and she was different. Something had changed. She told me that she was going to travel to see her school friends and that when she returned I must be gone. I was devastated at the rejection and became impassioned, but she stood still and waited until my anger was exhausted and then calmly bade me goodbye. Of course, in the days to come, I had to admit that it was a love always destined to end, our stations being so different. I thought perhaps you had discovered us and demanded she break with me. I left the next morning and ventured far north.

“I should tell you, Signore, that I have never really stopped loving her. She was the mate of my soul. I never found her equal.” He stopped, exhausted by the memories and the passion. A silence gathered and the sun shone on the dust, forming cones of swirling light. “You have not found the child?”

Giorgio looked down at the floor, sighing, knowing now that his quest was far from over.

“Alas, no. I was hoping that you knew where the child was, but I see clearly now that you do not. I am an aged man, and I desire only to see my grandchild before I die and pass down my legacy, my vineyards. It is clear that I must continue my searching until I find the child or die in the attempt.” He struggled to his feet and Antonio leaped to his assistance.

“Signore, when—if, you succeed in your quest, I would very much like to meet my child. Please, remember me.”

Giorgio nodded and patted Antonio’s hand tenderly. “Do you want for anything?”

“I want for nothing, Signore, except for the love of a woman and a family. I came here as an inexperienced boy and am now the manager of all the horses. I have done well financially, but my life is empty. I am familiar with the loneliness you speak of. Remember me, please, Signore.”

T

Antonio watched the broken man leave and enter his carriage, then sat upon the saddle stand, deep in thought. He had been eighteen that summer when she returned from finishing school. Life was just beginning, and he was popular among the maids in the village and the servant girls in the house. As he worked the horses, he was aware that his muscles were developing, and he enjoyed the looks of admiration from the girls.

Isabella had surprised him a few weeks after her return from school by asking him to ride with her. He had been shocked. He had noticed her beauty from afar. Of course, who would not? But he knew his place, and besides, there were so many young maidens accessible to him.

She had entered the stable in full riding gear and a veil across her face to keep off the dust. Her presence was tangible, her manner haughty, and authority rippled off her. The attraction he felt was real and dangerous.

He remembered declining and pointing out that it was not fitting, but she had laughed at him; he was a servant and posed no threat to her honor. She explained that she wanted to follow a new trail that might be dangerous and that she would need a companion for safety. He could follow some distance behind to keep things appropriate. She barely gave him a look and spoke most of what she said with her back to him.

They had begun the journey with a good distance between them, and the discomfort he had felt at first soon evaporated away. She was right and he was a fool. He was no more than a hireling to her, existing only to serve and protect.

After an hour, she took a sudden sharp turn up into the foothills of Fiesole, where the way for a horse was narrow. He had never attempted such a trail and pulled closer to advise her of the risk of such a venture. She had thrown back her head and laughed, calling him a coward and urging her horse on faster. He had followed more closely and as the trail twisted and turned, his concern rose. This was no easy way for a lady and her mare.

After thirty more minutes, he began to relax as it was evident that she was a fine equestrian and more than equal to the task. He began to worry less and enjoy the scenery more.

He was just beginning to wish that he had brought something to drink when he heard a sharp cry. He looked up to see that Isabella’s horse was no longer in his field of vision and urged his own horse onward. As he reached the summit of a small hillock, he looked down upon Isabella, who had been thrown by her horse, which was now eating grass not far from her. He stopped his own horse and jumped off in some anxiety as he knelt to assess the damage. Isabella rolled onto her back with a grimace and told him that she had landed on her shoulder. He slid his hands behind her back, gently lifting her to a sitting position, and leaned her against the hillside. She took off her riding hat and veil with her good arm and shielded her eyes from the sun. He ripped the fabric from his sleeve and fashioned a sling for her arm. As he slid the cloth around her back and tied the sling at her neck, she looked at him, as though seeing him properly for the first time, and her eyes widened in appreciation. He moved back onto his haunches so as not to appear to be too intimate and looked at her cautiously. Her color was heightened from the ride and her carefully coiffed hair had dislodged in the fall and fell in ringlets around her face and shoulders. Her ebony eyes were squinted slightly in pain and her rosy mouth was in a pout. He took a sharp intake of breath and moved further away, alarmed by the uncontrolled passion rising in his breast.

She had laughed then at his discomfort and asked his name. She had rolled the syllables around on her tongue like a sugared fruit, and it had caused a frisson down his backbone. Then she asked how long he had worked for her father and about his family with genuine interest. As he explained that his mother had died in childbirth and his father soon after, her expression had turned to compassion and they had shared their feelings about being motherless. In that moment, she had become dangerously real and surprisingly equal.

At length, the difficulty of their situation bore down upon him and he asked if she could ride. She moved her shoulder in experimentation only to cry out in pain, and it was clear that she could not. The only solution appeared to be that he should put her back on her horse and walk it down to the bottom of the hilly trail, then ride back to her home for a carriage.

He bent and scooped her into his arms, their faces too close. As her honeyed breath danced against his cheek he had trouble concentrating and she was uncharacteristically quiet. The air between them was thick with tension.

He delicately placed her on the mare who, fortunately, was of a docile temperament, and slowly descended the hill leading both horses. At intervals, a little squeak of pain would escape her lips but no further conversation was had. They were clearly each dealing with a surprise mix of emotions.

When they reached flatter land, he helped her descend, being careful not to clip her shoulder, and positioned her comfortably, before galloping off to alert the household.

As he rode, he relived the moment her breath had grazed his cheek, over and over again, and at each revision the tender sensation in his heart increased in intensity. He argued with himself about the folly and impropriety of such thoughts but the memory was so delicious that it became a treasure to be taken out and enjoyed with just a hint of guilt; an innocent fantasy that would never be realized.

Isabella was rescued by the head groom who berated Antonio the whole way there and back on the idiocy of such an adventure and the impropriety. Antonio took the scolding because the joy of the intimate moment was the best reward, the memory of which could never be taken from him.

Upon their return, Isabella was whisked away to her rooms and he returned to the stables. The young maid servants who continued to smile and wave at him had, somehow, lost their luster when compared to the prized jewel. Life returned to its normal rhythm.

After a week of convalescence, she reappeared, unannounced, a perfect silhouette, at the doorway to the stables. Seeing his surprise, she demanded that he accompany her again. He knew it was madness, but he was powerless to resist. He made her promise that she would not take such risks again and inquired about a chaperone. She downplayed the notion with a laugh saying that she had told her maid she would be with a stable boy and that the idea of danger or compromise with a servant was so foreign that the maid had found the arrangement acceptable. Her eyebrow arched on one side. and her lips matched it in an enticing invitation. He could not have denied her had he tried.

And so began an addicting habit. Most mornings they would ride and then let the horses graze and sit among the wild flowers and talk of their hopes and dreams. It was startling to both that they could be from such different spheres and yet have so much in common.

Over time, the very air would hum with attraction, and he trembled for fear that he would make a mistake, crossing an unseen line that would shatter forever the idyllic rhythm of this illicit paradise.

Then came that fateful day that he had held her a fraction too long as he helped her dismount and the gravitational pull, which began with man in the Garden of Eden, inevitably drew them together, their lips had touched, and they were never the same again.

Passion had ignited their relationship, but the recklessness of stealing private moments and the need for subterfuge fueled it. Stolen moments, charged looks, desperate kisses. Two young, unbridled, vital humans thrown together by circumstance and kept together by a reckless disregard for standards and a lack of supervision. Once the forbidden fruit had been tasted, there was no going back, so sweet and addictive was its savor.

He well remembered the day when she had boldly declared that she loved him. It was a moment never to be forgotten and, indeed, it had spoiled all other romances for him.

The day she came to inform him of her immediate departure and order that he be gone when she returned came as unexpectedly as a bolt of lightning. He raged, demanding an explanation; she waited in silence for his anger to dissipate and then quietly but firmly insisted that he leave. She would entertain no debate on the subject and left as abruptly as she had arrived.

He had sunk to the stable floor in shocked despair and confusion, and after a restless night of questioning, his depression and heartbreak had turned to sadness at the age-old class distinctions that he blamed for the savage end to their affair. His pride was bruised and beaten, his heart in pieces, but he realized that he would never stop loving her and that she was right. He had to leave. He left before dawn, never to return.

Now to learn that she had borne his child! He had never suspected, not once.