She drew in a deep, sharp breath when she saw Ludovico adorned in layers of fine velvet, silks, and metal insignia. In spite of herself, the vision of him ready to wed stabbed at her heart. She forced herself to stare at the floor.
“My beautiful flower.” He brought one palm to her cheek and wrapped another around her middle. She felt the metal rings strapped across his chest press into her bodice.
“Ludovico.”
“I know that I have not visited you in some time. All the same, you bring me joy.”
For a few moments, Cecilia allowed herself to close her eyes and breathe in his heady scent of perspiration masked with acqua vita.
“You must visit the stable later today,” he said quietly, running his palm up one side of her neck. “There is a new mare from Callocci Stables in Umbria. She is the pick of the mating season. My equerry will acquaint you with her. I will leave you to give her a name.”
“I am indebted to you once again, my lord,” Cecilia said, but she did not meet his eyes.
It was only the latest of the fine gifts Cecilia had received in past weeks, while Ludovico remained behind locked doors. There had been exotic fruits delivered to her rooms, so sweet they were like eating the finest desserts; gilded boxes that flickered in the lantern light; colored stones that hung heavily against her breast; and fine webs of pearls for her hair. There were strings of glass beads, and ribbons of transparent blue to weave into her braids. There was a black cap, made of organza, fashionable among the women of Milan. And now, another horse. The closer to the wedding, the more frequently the gifts were presented to her. But Ludovico himself remained absent.
Outside the window, Cecilia heard the rattle of carriage wheels on the stone pavement. There was not much time.
“Ludovico.” Cecilia straightened herself in her dress, her hand once again finding its way to her middle. She took a deep breath. “I would make you a better wife.”
He smiled at her indulgently. “My flower,” he said again, taking her hands in his. “You already have my heart. And you have played games with my mind, so much so that I have already postponed this . . . event . . . not once but twice.” He sighed heavily and wagged a finger at her as if scolding her. “All the same, Cecilia, I cannot delay any longer. And you know that the strength and security of the duchy rely on my alliance with Ferrara.”
Cecilia shook her head. “No. I do not know that. Tell me one thing that Beatrice d’Este can do that I cannot. I have spent countless hours entertaining your guests with food, drink, and conversation. I have recited sonnets for all the important people who have set foot in your court. I have even sung a ridiculous song for the ambassador of France!”
Ludovico muffled a laugh.
“And”—her voice fell to a whisper—“I am carrying your son.”
Ludovico’s finger lightly tipped her chin up to him and he brushed his lips against hers. The kiss was sweet, tender, and filled with the first inkling of passion. She felt her body open to him. But then, he broke the kiss and only touched his forehead gently against hers.
“I am sorry.”
“But why? I know you feel it between us. I know there is more to what you feel for me than simply what takes place behind our chamber doors.” Cecilia’s heart was beginning to race as she realized that she may lose the battle.
Ludovico sighed and walked to the window, looking down at the carriages that had assembled below the blue and gold banners of the court of Ferrara.
“Because this marriage is not simply a marriage. I am obliged.”
“But it isn’t right. I am the one who deserves it.”
Ludovico came close to her and ran his hand down her arm. “My beauty. You are deserving of so much more than that. I am not leaving you. I promise. I will still come to you. You will have land. Honor. A wet nurse. Servants to help you. Every possible thing you should need. I will keep you here in the palace, tucked away where the two of us will not be disturbed. You will not lose me.”
Cecilia felt her lips begin to quake. She had always been so careful to mask her emotions in front of him, but this had become too much.
“Please,” he said, stepping back as her shoulders began to crumble. “You must understand the position I am in.” Cecilia felt that she could no longer form a word without crying.
From the window, Ludovico looked down into the courtyard as lines of condottieri in their finest armor marched up the stairway into the castle. Then, Cecilia watched Ludovico’s polished leather boots move toward the door. As his hand reached for the latch, she took a deep breath and found her voice.
“Ludovico!” It came out loudly as if she were calling him from a great distance. He stopped in his tracks and whirled around to face her. She had never raised her voice to him, but right now, hot desperation rose in her throat.
“You must take me as your bride instead! Go out there and tell everyone. You are in charge, after all. It is your decision. No one else’s.”
For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze. She watched his black eyes flicker in the light. Then, she saw the lines on either side of his eyes crinkle, and the side of his mouth rose in a half smile.
“My dear girl.”
41
Edith
Outside Puławy, Poland
March 1940
WAHL I. WAHL II. WAHL III.
First Rate, Second Rate, Third.
The harsh rake of light from the desk lamp illuminated stacks of ledgers and inventories. Farther away, in the shadowy recesses of the basement storage room, unknown treasures awaited her inspection. Over the past weeks, Edith had identified a small picture by the Dutch painter Anthony van Dyck. And there were more stacks of paintings, sculptures, rugs, and furniture lying in wait for her examination. There were also scores of smaller pieces—silver services, glass and crystal, brass.
Wahl I. Wahl II. Wahl III.
Edith had started thinking of them in colors: green, blue, red.
And photographs. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of photographs. Nameless faces stared out at Edith in the shadows as she sat alone with her pen and a blank ledger page. Photographs in frames, in boxes, in albums, loose.
Yet another Polish estate. This time, she did not know the name or the exact location of this once-fine country house, nor did she know what had become of its owners. The belowground level—now transformed into Edith’s workspace—had been set up for the collection and sorting of property stripped from private owners across Poland. Edith was only glad that Hans Frank had chosen a location far from Wawel Castle. Far from Frank’s own offices. Far from Frank himself.
Edith was so relieved to have been assigned far away from Frank that she didn’t even mind being the only woman lodged along with a houseful of men. The upper floors had been transformed into barracks to house Nazi officers. Once the men learned that Edith’s fiancé was one of them, that he too was deployed on the Polish front, they treated Edith with respect. They also shared stories about their own wives, girlfriends, sisters, and mothers they had left behind in Germany.
Edith was assigned to a sparse former servants’ quarters off the kitchen, where the smells of stewed meat and pastry filled her room. She and the officers were fed from a large ground-floor dining room staffed by three Polish matrons who had been coerced into housekeeping and kitchen duty. The women whispered among themselves as they rolled dough or chopped onions and carrots. Edith had tried to be friendly with the only other women in the building, but she quickly discovered that the kitchen ladies were not only extremely guarded but also understood no German. Edith spoke no Polish, so she soon gave up trying to make a friend or even have a conversation beyond crude hand gestures if she needed something.