Reluctant as I had been to give up my service to the pope—which only served to make me more resentful of Juan Borgia—I soon found that a place in his daughter’s household was just as delightful, if not more so. The tasks were light; there were other maids already employed to see to the scrubbing and the laundry, so I was responsible only for such things as bringing trays up from the kitchens, mending, and seeing that Madonna Lucrezia’s room was always in good order and her clothes properly put away, though she had two other maids to help her with dressing, her hair, and bathing. The heaviest task was hauling hot water up from the kitchens when Madonna Lucrezia took her weekly bath, which also involved washing her long, thick, pale golden hair. I’d never seen someone with such an obsessive need for cleanliness, but it was not for me to say what was right for a noblewoman of her standing.
My new position suited me perfectly, and with the extra wages I was able to purchase even finer thread for my embroidery, which I now had more time for. I certainly owed His Excellency the Archbishop of Valencia a debt, though how the likes of me could ever repay someone like him I had no idea. I only knew I was grateful.
My biggest regret was that I missed seeing Federico regularly. A part of me wished I might have had more time to discover how he truly felt about me, and in turn, how I felt about him. Yet I was strangely relieved I would likely not find out his true feelings and have to make a difficult decision.
I sent him a note to tell him of the change in my position—hoping he had not simply enjoyed flirting with me as a passing amusement—but the messenger returned without a reply, saying Federico had not been in his room. As time passed, and I never heard from him, I meant to send another note, but I grew accustomed to my new life and it slipped my mind. Surely if he missed me he would have sought me out, no? Perhaps that in and of itself was answer enough to my questions.
Since I’d come to the Palazzo Santa Maria in Portico, wisps of rumor about the lady Lucrezia’s marriage had gathered into the certainty of a rain cloud overhead, though I had yet to hear the name of a groom confirmed. I was rather wistful at the thought of losing so fine a mistress, but maybe she’d bring me to her married house. Or, barring that, I could still serve Giulia Farnese and Adriana de Mila, who were not much more trouble.
Giulia Farnese was as beautiful as everyone said, with her heart-shaped face, long gold hair that fell almost to her ankles, and a figure that was by turns slender and fleshy in all the right places. I had been brought up to believe the pope was more divine than man—though living and working in the house of two popes had showed me how human they truly were—and so should be above such earthly temptations, but La Bella Farnese could truly tempt a saint. And very few men were in fact saints.
Initially I had tried to keep my distance from her; after all, how did one properly interact with a woman committing such grave sin? But not only was Giulia beautiful, she was kind to a fault, and never failed to thank the servants or give us a quick smile. It was impossible not to warm to her, whether you were a man or a woman.
One day I brought a requested tray of pastries and cakes from the kitchen into the second floor sitting room, where I found Lucrezia and Giulia giggling with their heads together, and Adriana nowhere in sight. “Oh, come, Giulia, you must tell me,” Lucrezia wheedled.
“I wish I could,” the older girl said, laughing, “but I cannot.”
“Then who will?”
“Surely that is the duty of Madonna Vannozza, your mother.”
“I should far rather have you explain such a thing to me!”
I set down the tray on the table before them, curtsied, and made to withdraw. But Lucrezia glanced up then. “Oh, Maddalena,” she said, waving a hand at me. “We are gossiping of women’s things, so you must tell us. Are you married?”
“Widowed, Madonna,” I said, surprised she should ask. Most women in domestic service were either unmarried or widowed, yet a young lady from a wealthy family would have no reason to know what was usual for the poor and working classes. I had an uncomfortable idea of where this conversation was going.
“Oh!” Her hands flew to her pale cheeks, surprised. “And at such a young age, too! Why, you cannot be older than my brother Cesare!”
“No, Madonna,” I said, for gossip had informed me we were the same age. “It was a brief marriage, as my husband met with a … fatal misfortune.” I did not wish to go into the horrifying details in front of these fine ladies.
“You poor thing! To have had a taste of wedded bliss, only to have it snatched away,” Lucrezia cried. She crossed herself. “May God have mercy on his soul. I shall light a candle for him when next I go to Mass.”
Giulia crossed herself as well.
My heart warmed even further toward the pope’s daughter. Blessed Virgin, keep her happy and innocent as long as you can, I prayed silently. May she never know anything but wedded bliss, hard as it may be for many women to find. “You are very kind, Madonna,” I said, smiling.
“Well,” she began, eyes sparkling anew as she returned to the topic at hand. “Perhaps you can tell me, since our lovely Giulia is so reluctant…” She trailed off, raising her eyebrows at her friend before turning her gaze back to me. “What, precisely, takes place in the marriage bed between husband and wife?”
My face flushed, though I had been expecting this question. “Madonna, I … it … it is not my place to tell you such things,” I stammered. May God and all the saints strike me down if I were to explain such a thing to the pope’s daughter, soon to be married or no!
“Oh, per favore, Maddalena?” she cajoled, reaching out to take my hands. “I am nearly a woman grown, and yet no one will tell me anything!”
How sad, that in our world thirteen years of age should be nearly a woman grown. “It would not be proper, Madonna,” I said, lowering my eyes and carefully withdrawing my hands from her smooth ones. “The task of revealing such information must fall to your lady mother.”
Lucrezia sat back with a huff. “Oh, you are terrible, the two of you!” she said, looking between Giulia and I, but merriment was in her eyes. “Never you mind. I shall find out, soon enough!”
“Indeed you shall, but no sooner than you need to,” Giulia said, soothing her.
Sensing I was no longer needed, I curtsied once more and left the room, still smiling to myself. I wished only the best for Lucrezia Borgia in her marriage—and surely the daughter of the pope had a far happier, more exalted marriage to look forward to than a poor country girl like me had.
One afternoon, as I was bent over a table in the sitting room, returning the dirtied dishes and linens to the kitchen tray, my handkerchief—the one I’d finished embroidering weeks ago—slipped from my sleeve and fluttered to the floor. I stooped further to pick it up, but Madonna Lucrezia noticed first and scooped it up. “What it this, Maddalena?” she asked, the teasing note I’d already grown to know so well in her voice. “A token from a lover, perhaps?”
I smiled. “No, Madonna. Only my handkerchief, I’m afraid.”
She made to hand it back to me, but her eyes caught on the embroidery. “My, this is exquisite work,” she said, spreading out the cloth so she could examine it more closely. She traced the patterns of flowers along the edge, all emanating from a cross in one of the corners. “Beautiful. Some of the finest work I have seen anywhere. Where did you get it?”
“I made it, Madonna,” I said. “That is, I had the scrap of cloth from an old dress, and I did the embroidery myself.”
She looked up at me, astonished. “You? Indeed?”
“Sì, Madonna. I can make lace as well.”
“Wherever did you learn how to do work so fine?” She passed the handkerchief to Donna Adriana, who was seated beside her. Adriana bent over it, murmuring noises of surprise and approval.
“My grandmother, Madonna. She was educated at a convent school, and one of the sisters there taught her.” My mother’s mother. She had lived with us until her death when I was ten. I missed her dearly, not least because she had not been there to protect me from my mother’s cruelty. It was highly unusual for women of her station—and mine—to learn such fine embroidery, as such was the province of noble ladies, and she’d managed to make a good income for herself—and us—while she lived. She had been lucky to receive such tutelage from a nun who was the daughter of a wealthy family, and who recognized a gift for needlework when she saw one. I was lucky to have inherited her gift.
“You have quite a gift for this work,” Lucrezia said, echoing my thoughts. She gave the handkerchief one last look before taking it from Adriana and passing it back to me. “I wonder,” she said, tapping a fingertip against her lips, “if you could be persuaded to embroider some items for my trousseau.”
My head snapped up. “I … truly, Madonna?”
“Yes, indeed. Some small items, methinks; handkerchiefs and other linens, perhaps a few petticoats. Oh!” She clapped her hands as another idea occurred to her. “And I have an old gown that must be made over, since I have grown—some new panels added. Perhaps you could do some embroidery on that as well? And add some lace?” She turned to her guardian. “Do you not think?”
“It is certainly fine work,” Donna Adriana said. “You are old enough now to choose your own embroiderers and seamstresses, if you like their work.”
“Please do say yes, Maddalena!” Lucrezia said, clasping her hands together and looking the very picture of an earnest child begging for sweets.
“It would be my honor, Madonna Lucrezia,” I said, trying to bite back a wide grin at the thought of doing such work—if it could even be called work, as it was something I loved doing so!
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I shall see a little bit is added to your wages.”
“You honor me, Madonna,” I said, curtsying. I had sold some pieces back in the village—the only reason Mother had tolerated my “fool stitchery”—but there were few there with the money or appreciation for fine work. To be paid to take on these tasks for a noble lady like Lucrezia was more than I had ever dared dream of.
And perhaps … perhaps the experience, as well as the extra money, might help me someday achieve the thing I desired most: to support myself as a seamstress. It would not be easy, not when men controlled the guilds and such independent craftswomen were usually widows carrying on their husbands’ business, but maybe if I could win the confidence of the pope’s own daughter … maybe …
“No doubt we have maids enough to take care of these other tasks while you are working on the lady Lucrezia’s things,” Donna Adriana broke into my reverie, gesturing toward the tray I was still in the process of clearing.
“I am happy to serve in any way I can,” I said quickly.
With that, I gathered the rest of the dishes and whisked them away, at last letting my smile have free rein. Oh, what fortune was mine in this house!