I had never traveled far beyond Florence, only to my family’s villa in the countryside, a short drive from the city, but I hardly noticed the view from the carriage that took me to the villa on the shores of Lake Garda. I’m sure it was beautiful; I did not care. The housekeeper led me to a spacious suite of rooms where Alfia helped me bathe and change into a fresh gown. While she unpacked my belongings, a maid took me to her mistress.
Fabbiana Cambio greeted me in an ornately furnished room off of which was a loggia that overlooked the lake. She bore a shocking resemblance to her brother. They both had the same green eyes, the same dark brown hair, the same elegant posture. But her face was paler and she coughed frequently.
“You poor thing,” she said, not even introducing herself. “I will do what I can to make you comfortable here.”
“I’m grateful to you, but I’m certain that Giacomo—Father Cambio—I don’t know how to address him anymore—”
“It would be best if you found a way to stop thinking about him altogether, Mina. There will never again be a need for you to address him.”
“But surely he’ll come, he’ll want to see—”
“His child?” She pressed her lips together and shook her head, ever so slightly. “He won’t. He never does.”
“Never?”
“Mina, you are not the first, nor will you be the last. I’m accustomed to my brother’s shortcomings, of which there are many. Sometimes I wish the consumption would take me, so he’d no longer have a convenient place to send you girls.”
“How many have there been?”
“It doesn’t matter. I spoke to your slave. She says the child is expected in the spring. Winter is cold here, and will only get colder, but I prefer it to southern climates, no matter what the doctors tell me. You will be well looked after.”
“And then?”
“You will stay through the summer. By then, we will have found you someone to marry. Your parents are unaware of your condition?”
“They suspect nothing.” A crushing guilt descended upon me as I said the words.
“Good. That will make things easier.”
“I’d rather not marry.”
“It’s either that or the convent. I promise to choose a man who will be kind to you. You deserve that much. It won’t be a brilliant match, but given the circumstances, it is the best anyone can hope for.”
“And my baby?”
“We will take it back to Florence, to the Ospedale degli Innocenti. They will take care of the child, see to its education, and put it on a righteous path.”
“More righteous than that walked by its parents,” I said.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Giacomo is a beast. Once he chose you, you had very little chance of getting away. I don’t know anyone who’s managed to do it, but then, I suppose I wouldn’t, would I? I will send food to your room so that you don’t have to face any more conversation today. Tomorrow, I will show you my gardens, and we will settle into what I hope you find a satisfying routine. All I ask in return is that you try not to weep in my presence. That, I cannot abide.”
Fabbiana, as she insisted I call her, proved an amiable companion, although I worried I was not the same for her, despite my having been invited on just that pretense. Every morning, we took a walk, even in bad weather—in defiance of ominous warnings from the doctor who wanted her inside as much as possible—and then made lace until it was time for my hostess’s afternoon nap.
Those few hours were among the only ones I had to myself each day. At first, I resented the lack of privacy, but I soon came to realize that I was more content in Fabbiana’s company than when I was on my own. Alone, I thought about Giacomo, about our child, about the dreams I’d for us.
Fabbiana insisted that I write to my family regularly, so I composed cheery notes about the mountains and the lake and my ever-increasing skills as a lace maker. As the weeks turned to months, I stopped fantasizing about what might have been with Giacomo and instead grew angry with him. When I fell into bed, though, I still could not help praying that he would come to me, at least to see our child. I told no one these thoughts, not even Alfia, who spent many nights comforting me as I cried in bed.
The new year arrived. Spring was violent, with unforgiving storms lashing down on us, one after another. My pains began late on the day before Easter. The baby, a boy, was born just after midnight on La Pasquetta, Easter Monday. His eyes were dark, not like his father’s, but the midwife told me that might change. Not that I would ever know. I called him Diotisalvi and handed him over to Fabbiana as instructed. I would not see him again.
She took him to Florence herself. When she returned, three days later, she pressed into my hand a golden medallion, cut in half, a medal of St. Anthony. “Little Salvi has the other half,” she said. “Should he ever try to find you, you’ll need this to prove you’re his mother.”
“Might he try to find me?” I asked.
“It’s not likely, Mina,” she said. “But it never hurts to make it easier, just in case.”