Francesca and the Baron's Son

Francesca and the Baron's Son

Tuscany, Italy  

May 5th, 1711

Francesca could tell that the bride had been crying - and they weren't tears of joy.  Her eyes and nose looked red and sore.

The bride, Francesca's eighteen-year-old cousin, wore a golden brocade dress that  tapered to her cinched waist and exploded into voluminous skirts. The elegant dress only accentuated the girl's plainness. The groom, about the same age, looked angry, but his weak chin suggested an air of peevishness. 

An old bishop in white robes and a tall miter hat stretched his hands over the couple, speaking in Latin. His words echoed around the small stone chapel. Light from a stained-glass window colored the hem of the bishop's robe and a dozen candles softened the gloom. 

Francesca fidgeted. 

She was a girl of eleven with impatient green eyes, the color of a deep forest glen. Suntanned skin nearly hid the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her auburn hair had been swept into a knot at her nape, but much of it had fallen loose. She wore a green dress that matched her eyes, except for the smudges of brown over her knees. 

Francesca's eyes searched the room for something to occupy her. She kicked her feet absently, and Papa, seated on her left, took her hand. That was his way of telling her to settle down. She tried, but she was annoyed. He had said that her cousin's wedding would be a happy occasion, but no one seemed happy and it was taking forever. 

With her fingertip she traced the scars that crisscrossed the back of Papa's hand, remnants from his days as a soldier and duelist. He smiled down at her, crinkling his steel-grey eyes. He squeezed her hand, then turned his attention back to the bishop. 

Francesca gazed around at the other children. Past her father sat her older brothers, Antonio and Sebastian. Sebi caught her eye and stuck out his tongue. She returned the gesture. Papa scowled at them both. 

In the pew in front of them sat Francesca's eight-year-old twin cousins, Camella and Gabriela. It was their sister who stood before the bishop fighting back tears. Francesca tried unsuccessfully to get their attention. Papa had promised that they could play after the ceremony and she was anxious to spend time with them. 

The only other child was the younger brother of the groom, Bencino. He sat between his parents, the baron and baroness. He had brooding eyes, like the groom, and his lips seemed stuck in a permanent sneer. 

The bishop ceased his droning and the unhappy couple turned and headed solemnly out of the chapel. Francesca and her family followed. 

Bencino came up behind them, shoving Antonio roughly out of the way as he passed. Antonio, five inches taller and a few years older than Bencino, started after him, but Papa quickly put a restraining hand on Antonio's shoulder. Antonio turned and Papa gave him a small but firm shake of the head. Antonio's jaws clenched but he held his place, the boy had noble blood and her family, while wealthy and successful, did not. 

The chapel occupied a small hill close to the rambling, utilitarian manor that belonged to Francesca's uncle. The ungainly stone house seemed out of place in the miles of spring green pastures that stretched up into the foothills ablush with red poppies. The soft cream bodies of sheep dotted the hillsides, half of them looking naked after the spring shearing. Lines of evenly spaced cypress trees followed a distant road. 

 Camella and Gabriela's governess led them and Francesca to the upstairs playroom. The room was hung with tapestries, domestic scenes in pale blues and greens. A small fire crackled in the white marble fireplace but the window was open to the fresh air. An ebony piano sat in one corner, dark and imposing in the pale room. The governess retreated to a pastel floral chair, retrieving her needlework from a bag at her feet.