The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [13]
“Nicholas,” said Catherine de Charetty. Her voice squealed like a saw. Her face was dirty. The bitch of a nurse wasn’t here, then. “Nicholas is in Florence. That man said Nicholas was in Florence.”
She had overheard. Pagano Doria closed the door and pulling his feathered cap off, crossed to the settle, and sat down beside the child. He hung his hat on her head, and then put one hand round the back of the settle and collected both of hers with the other. Her palms were dirty too. “I know,” he said. “Or at least, I know now. But you’re not worried, are you?”
She looked at him as if he had gone mad. Nicholas, aged nineteen, had lately married Catherine’s mother. Nicholas was now the head of the Charetty business. Nicholas, made aware of this charming elopement, would stop it quicker than even her mother might. In his own interests, of course. Whoring apprentices who married ladies twenty years older than themselves had no time for young maidens’ longings. Pagano Doria knew all about Nicholas. The girl was trembling.
It was tempting to gather her into his arms, but that was not the best way. He returned her look with affection and even the faintest amusement and said, “My darling, he’ll never dream that you can be here. Father Godscalc has no notion either. I met him on the towpath, and made friends with him just to be sure. He’s going to Florence. You’ll stay in Pisa until they’ve both gone.”
He realised his mistake, watching her face suffuse with red. She said, “You said we’d spend Christmas in Florence. You said I’d wear earrings. You said I’d meet princes. You said…”
“Of course it will happen!” he said. “They won’t stay in Florence for Christmas! If they’re going home, they’ll have to cross the Alps soon. If they’re sailing, why should they linger? You’ll have your earrings, my love, and everything else that you wanted. Now, if you like. Except that I can’t show you off until we are married. You do know that? You do remember? So your stepfather isn’t really holding you up at all, is he? Only that small gift from God that you and I are waiting to share. And once that happens…”
She had calmed. She searched his face, her own brightening a little. She said, “Of course. When I’m a woman and married, Nicholas can see me as much as he likes. Can’t he? Because he couldn’t send me home then.”
“It won’t arise. He’ll be gone before Christmas.”
“I hope he isn’t,” said the child dreamily.
Despite the dirt, she was amazingly pretty, as perhaps her mother once was. The reddish brown hair flamed in the light of the brazier and her eyes were a very bright blue. He stayed quite still, except for the fingers stroking her hands.
She said, “I’d like to be a woman while Nicholas is still in Florence. I’d like to walk into a palace in earrings and gold brocade like the Duchess Bianca, and speak to Nicholas.”
He said nothing.
She blushed. She said, “Tilde has little breasts.”
Then he drew her to him, but carefully as always, and dislodged the cap, and put his other arm round her shoulders. He said, “Yours, my Venus, will be more wonderful than Tilde’s, or any woman alive. I know it. I am waiting for you, Caterinetta.”
She had relaxed. Her lashes lowered. She was tired: she had ridden a long way, with whatever escort she had forced to come with her. She was, he had found, an excellent horsewoman. And she was not without courage, the little thing. She said, her eyes lightly closed, “Who did you kiss?”
It took all his control to stop the shock travelling through both his arms. What had Godscalc said? Sisters, mothers.
Pagano smiled, his lips touching her brow. He said, “The priest and I supped with the sea consul, and his wife gave me the kiss of friendship on parting. A good woman, Caterinetta. My mother was very like that. My mother would have loved