For fourteen weeks, the most glorious passion consumed me. Joy filled every conversation I had, every task I undertook. I saw beauty in everything, was a caring and attentive daughter, a spirited and friendly sister, a generous and indulgent mistress to our servants, Alfia in particular. For without her, I would not have been able to spend so much time with Giacomo.
Fourteen weeks might not seem, empirically, like all that much time, but it was enough for me to give myself wholly to him, body and soul, and enough for him to leave me with an everlasting reminder of the stolen hours during which we clung to each other. Alfia was aware of the problem before I was, having more knowledge of such things than I. First, she noticed that my monthly courses were late. Then, that I was sick in the morning. Neither of which I understood as signals that I was with child. At least, not until she told me.
My mother had never broached the subject. When my courses first began, she left it to Alfia to explain how to contend with the inconvenience. I had almost no insight into the relations between husband and wife. According to my mother, there was no need for me to be burdened with the knowledge of such things until I was on the cusp of marriage. With Giacomo, I had succumbed to every bodily urge, giving little thought to where it might lead. Which is not to say I didn’t know I was taking a great risk. I did. But it never occurred to me that it could all happen so quickly.
“You must do something about this at once,” Alfia implored me. “Your mother will discover your secret if you wait too long.”
“Do what?” I asked. She shrugged, but said nothing. I knew there were women who, for a fee, could eliminate such problems, but I would not consider taking such action. I loved Giacomo. I wanted his child. To describe the fantasies in which I indulged would be mortifying in the extreme. I was sixteen. I never doubted that he loved me, never doubted that, together, we would find a way. First, though, I would have to talk to him. Then we could make a plan.
When I went to confession that week—a ritual that had become charged with a host of inappropriate urges—I told him my sins, finishing, as had become a necessary habit, with those things that happened between us. As always, I struggled. I did not wish to make a bad confession. I was penitent. I tried—how I tried!—to resist letting it happen again, but never was I strong enough to resist when he looked at me, when he touched me. Week after week we swore to each other that we would stop, that we would return to discussing books. No more poetry, though. I suggested Euclid’s Elements, he a dry collection of the lives of the saints. It was all for naught.
This time, however, after I’d begged for forgiveness and promised to do better, there was one more thing I had to address. My nerves jangled, but with excitement rather than fear. We walked to the little room off the cloisters that I had come to think of as ours, and, once inside, I told him my news, ready to comfort him when he realized he would have to leave the priesthood, but confident that I could help him find equal—if not more—satisfaction in being a husband. The lusty look I’d come to crave seeing in his eyes disappeared, replaced by one harder and colder than stone. Still, I was not scared.
“I know it will cause a terrible scandal, but together, we can face it,” I said. “If it becomes too much, we can always leave Florence. Dreadful though that sounds—”
“Signorina, stop.” I hardly recognized his voice. All intimacy, all warmth was gone. “I will handle the matter. There will be no scandal. You will come to confession as usual next week. Any alteration in your routine might be noticed. By then, I will have a plan in place.”
“Will we—”
He interrupted me again. “Nothing further. Not now. We must not be seen alone together.”
He did not touch me, did not offer me a single word of encouragement. Even so, I was more curious than worried, wanting to know the details of the plan he would formulate, never doubting we would have a life together.
Alfia was waiting for me in the nave when I emerged from the cloisters. “Did you tell him?” she asked, waiting until we had left the church.
“I did. He will arrange everything.”
“Meaning what?”
“We will be married, of course. What else could it mean?”
She was too kind to introduce me to the truth. Not yet, at any rate. At the time, I saw sadness in her eyes and assumed she feared she would not be invited to join the household Giacomo and I would set up. I told her I would take her with me. She shook her head, but said nothing.
Almost a week later, my mother came to me, a letter in her hand. “Mina, I’ve received an invitation for you to visit Father Cambio’s sister at her villa near Lake Garda. She’s a widow now and has always been sickly, he explains, and likes to have a companion, someone amusing and intelligent. He wrote to her about you some weeks ago, and she asks if you would come live with her for the next year. It’s a great honor.”
My heart was pounding. Lake Garda? Giacomo’s sister? I didn’t even know he had a sister, but it was a brilliant scheme. We could marry from there, after he’d renounced the priesthood, and present ourselves to my parents as a couple, when it was too late for them to interfere. My mother was watching me, waiting for a reply. Not wanting to show too much excitement, I remained guarded. “I’ve never been to Lake Garda.”
“Signora Cambio married into one of the wealthiest and most influential families in Lombardy. It’s likely she will introduce you to many young men who would make suitable husbands.”
Indeed, but I was no longer in need of a suitor. I was already all but engaged. I wondered what my mother’s reaction would be when she learned of my marriage. I couldn’t help but smile. “When will I leave?”
She draped her arm around my shoulder, pulled me close, and patted my hair, like she had when I was a little girl. “This is a marvelous opportunity for you. Your father and I discussed it last night and agreed that you should go. I’ve already replied to say that you will set off the day after tomorrow. Alfia will accompany you.”
I can still recall every detail of that crisp, autumnal day. The bright sun mirrored my mood, and my confidence was unshakable. I knew Giacomo and I would face scathing disapproval, but we could survive that. Love, I believed then, made it possible to survive anything. I desperately wanted to see him, to tell him how heartily I approved of his plan. Ordinarily, I would not be going to confession until the following morning, but my mother would be so busy organizing the details of my trip, she was unlikely to notice if I slipped out for a bit. I couldn’t wait any longer to see Giacomo.
I sent for Alfia and told her I needed to go to church.
“Why?” she asked. “What’s happening?”
“I’m to go live with Giacomo’s sister for the next year and you’re to come with me. I never dreamed he would act so quickly! I wonder how soon we’ll be married. I don’t know what, precisely, he will have to do to leave the priesthood. Speak to the bishop, I suppose, but—”
“It would be best not to go to him right now,” Alfia said. “Wait for him to contact you at his sister’s.”
“Why would you say that?” I asked.
She scrunched her lips and beetled her brows. “This is a delicate situation. Drawing any attention to your connection could put all of your plans in jeopardy.”
“Don’t be silly. All I’m doing is going to confession, as I do every week. No one will notice if I do it a day early, and even if someone did, I can explain that I was eager to receive one more sacrament in my family’s church before going away for such a long time.”
Alfia sighed. “I don’t think I was ever so young as you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not young, but innocent.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I don’t think you should go,” she said. “It may cause you much pain. Then again, it may be the last…” Her voice trailed. She shook her head. “I will do your bidding.”
I drew a deep breath as we entered the church, warmth filling me. The lingering aroma of incense smelled like all good things. I searched until I found Giacomo, reading in the garden of the cloisters.
“Forgive me for intruding upon you like this,” I said. “My mother told me of the invitation to your sister’s. I know I should be more patient and wait for your further instructions, but I had to see you.”
“You should not be here,” he said angrily, glancing around to make sure there was no one else present and then motioning for me to follow him. We went to our room. “I told you to come for confession as usual. This is not usual.”
“My mother tells me I am to leave the day after tomorrow, so tomorrow will be hectic and I might not have been able to come. I couldn’t leave Florence without seeing you again.”
He closed his eyes, but I thought I saw his face soften. “Yes,” he murmured, pulling me to him. “Just once again.”
It was the sweetest hour of my life.
Afterward, as I arranged myself, I felt all aglow. “I suppose we won’t meet again until we marry. I don’t know how I shall wait—”
“Marry? Marry?” He stepped away from me and laughed. “Signorina Portinari, I don’t know how you came to the conclusion we would marry. I am a priest. My life is dedicated to God. I can take no wife. My sister will help you see to the baby. Beyond that, we can have no further relationship.”
“I know that leaving the priesthood is something not to be taken lightly, but—”
“Why would I leave the priesthood?” he asked. “It is unfortunate that our encounters have left you encumbered, which is why I have offered my sister’s assistance, but this has no bearing on my holy orders.”
I was reeling, confused, angry, crushed. “We sinned together and must face the consequences together.”
“Not together, signorina. Quite separately. If you want me to hear your confession one last time, I will. Otherwise, there is nothing left to be done. I do have another appointment this afternoon, so if you would repent, we should get on with it.”
“I am in great need of the sacrament,” I said and followed him back into the church. I mumbled half coherently in the confessional, fighting tears. Upon my exit, I nearly collapsed. Alfia rushed from the pew on which she’d been waiting and steadied me.
“I’m sorry, signorina,” she said.
“No, Alfia, it will be all right. He just—” I stopped. “I must go back and speak to him again, if only to—”
She steered me around so that I was looking back at the confessional. There, pulling open the door was a young girl, about my age, beautiful and elegant, bright with anticipation in a way wholly inappropriate for one about to ask for absolution from her sins. I recognized the look all too well.
When Alfia went outside, I refused to leave the small, triangular piazza, insisting that we wait until the girl left the church. I marked the time with the bells ringing from the campanile. She did not emerge for nearly two hours, and when she did, she was radiant, just as I used to be.
My heart broke in that instant, never to heal again.