Caresa passed me another sheet and the pen from before. Two hours later, I had completed a worksheet where I had to trace out the shape of letters. We had gone through eleven words on the reading sheet, and I was now the proud owner of an iPod.
“It is filled with audio books so at night you can read along with the actual books.” Caresa had brought me a stack of books that she wanted me to try and read a sentence or two from each night. The audio book would read along with me so I could see and hear the words. Afterwards, I would sound them out—eyes, lips and ears. “It has voice control so you can ask for the book rather than have to find it by the written title. I have put them in the same order as the books so you won’t accidentally read the wrong one.”
The iPod, she told me, also had on it every opera and concerto piece that I could imagine. She told me it would be easier to listen to in the fields than the old cassette player.
Over a week later, after days and days of intense schooling, she brought her laptop and uploaded some more music. As Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony played through the portable speaker she had brought, she turned to me. “Have you ever heard this symphony by Beethoven before?”
“Yes,” I said, listening to the vaguely familiar music.
“Do you know that this symphony is regarded as Beethoven’s best?” I shook my head. Caresa sat beside me as we listened to the dancing strings. “I wanted to share this with you.” She nudged me affectionately. “I know how much you love opera, but I have never heard you play music outside of the Italian greats.” She winked at me. “Some people might think you show a strong bias to our fellow countrymen.”
I huffed a laugh. “Some people may be right.”
Caresa giggled, the sweet sound filling both the room and my veins. “When I was researching more techniques for us to try, I suddenly remembered Beethoven.” She nodded toward the speaker. “Beethoven wrote nine symphonies. This one is the most complex, the most celebrated and the most famous. It was the standout work of his life.”
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed.
Caresa turned to face me. “Beethoven lost his hearing, Achille. One of the world’s greatest composers lost his hearing. A composer, a man who wrote music, listened to music, lived for music, lost the very sense essential to his work.”
“That’s awful,” I said, shaking my head in sympathy.
“No,” Caresa said forcefully. “In the end, it was arguably his greatest blessing. Achille, he wrote this symphony when he was deaf. His greatest masterpiece was produced without the ability to hear sound. Don’t you see?” I waited with bated breath for her to continue. “What challenges us, what should break us, can in the end be our greatest blessing. Because our failures can make us great. Our most basic of human adversities can inspire within us an almost superhuman strength. Our weaknesses are simply our untested wings waiting to be flown.”
In the week that followed, with every new sentence learned and new word written down, I listened to the symphony, allowing Caresa’s words to circle my mind.
One night, as I tried to read by the fire, with Beethoven playing in the background, I realized that what and how Caresa was teaching me was working. I let myself imagine the future Caresa had helped me to visualize that day outside the barn.
And I knew that she was right. My wings were simply untested, but each and every day, they were readying themselves for flight just that little bit more.
To fly toward Caresa, the woman who was rapidly becoming my sun . . .
. . . to Caresa, the woman who was lighting my way from the dark.
Chapter Ten
Caresa
“It will be long-sleeved, as all royal dresses should be, yes? Lace sleeves and a v-neckline and a silk skirt?” I stood on a raised plinth as Julietta, my wedding dress designer, took my measurements. She whipped around me like a cyclone as she measured my legs, my waist, my chest and finally my arms. When she was done, she linked my arm and brought me to the table and chairs in my living room.
She turned to another page of the sketchbook lying on the tabletop. Her flawless design for the dress of my dreams had been on page one. Her ideas for my hair and makeup were on page two. And when she turned to the third page, I felt the tears immediately fill my eyes.
“Your dream veil, no?” Juiletta asked, in English. Since she had arrived, she had insisted that she speak English. She said she needed the practice. I had only spoken Italian in weeks. Only over the phone to Marietta did I use English. It was nice to feel my tongue wrap around such familiar-sounding words.
My finger ran along the design, sketched out in charcoal pencil, except for the silken vines that were drawn in shimmering silver. It was floor length with a long train, exactly like I had always dreamed. It had Spanish lace around the front, perfectly suited to a Catholic duomo ceremony.
It was everything I had ever wanted.
“Well?” Julietta said. “Is it good?”
I nodded, my throat struggling to push out any words. But it was not because I was left speechless by the design—even though it was as if she had taken the picture straight from my mind—but because of the heavy ache I felt in my heart as I stared down at the veil I had envisioned wearing since I was a little girl. The veil I would wear when I married my prince.
It was all coming true. I was getting the veil. I had the prince . . . but I knew the reason for the ache in my heart.
I wasn’t marrying the right prince.
The truth was, I didn’t even want a prince at all.
“Bene!” Julietta said, slipping back into Italian. “I will get these back to my studio in Florence, and we shall begin to put it all together. We will have a fitting in a couple of weeks, then again a couple of weeks before the big day.”
I hadn’t realized I was staring off at nothing until Julietta waved her hand in front of my face. I blinked and forced on a smile. “I’m so sorry, I was in a complete daze for a moment there.”
Julietta laughed. “No doubt imagining marrying Prince Zeno in just a couple of months. You’re quite the envy of Florence.”
“Yes. So I’ve heard,” was all I said in response.
Julietta bade me a good day with a casual wave of her hand and left me alone in my rooms. I needed fresh air. I made my way to the balcony doors and stepped outside. The cool breeze flicked up my hair and sent shivers down my back. It was early November, and the delayed summer air seemed to have finally cooled. I walked to the edge of the balcony, and, like I did each time I came out this way, I let my gaze drift out to Achille’s small vineyard, tucked away in the valley in the distance. And like every day, I felt an urge to run down the steps and along the fields until I got there. I could even smell the burning oak from his fire and hear the opera serenading him in his barn. It amazed me that even though I had only known him for four weeks, it felt strange not seeing him every day. Those first couple of weeks spent by his side—harvesting, riding and crushing the grapes—were some of the best and most cherished of my life.
And that night . . . the night we had made love . . .
A symphony of hustle and bustle sounded from around the estate, pulling me from that heated memory. It made me wonder what Achille was up to right then. It made me wonder if he had managed to read last night.
I was so proud of him. I didn’t think I had ever been more proud of anyone in my life. Every time we worked on his reading, he struggled. Sometimes the words were so frustrating for him that my heart wept. I knew he came close to giving up at times, but, time and time again, he would prove to me just how strong he was when he refocused, took a deep breath and tried again.
And I hated that I couldn’t be there more. I . . . I missed him. Felt as though I could barely breathe without him being close by.
I should have decided to stay away long ago. I should have cut all ties from that second day when he had showed me how he hand-harvested the vines. But like the fool that I was, I kept going back, over and over. I had tried to fool myself that I returned simply t
o help him read and write.
But both God and I knew that was a lie.
I was sure Achille knew it too.
I jumped at the sound of a plate crashing to the ground. The mansion was in chaos. It had been in chaos for the past eight days, as the staff outside readied for the grape-crushing festival, and the staff inside prepared the great hall for Zeno’s coronation banquet.
The banquet was tonight.
The festival was today.
Zeno had yet to return.
Today was also the day that the judges of each category of the International Wine Awards would, at three p.m., call the winner to award them the prestigious prize.
As Achille had predicted, the call would come to Zeno, and Zeno would publicly reap the reward. But I knew if Bella Collina’s famed merlot won today, that honor went to one person and one person only.
And I knew he wouldn’t come. Achille never really left his home apart from when he had to get a few groceries from Orvieto. He barely even left the vineyard but for the occasional ride outside the perimeters of his land. I knew from his expression and tone when we had discussed the awards that he would not be here today.
I wrapped my white cashmere cardigan tighter around my body to stave off the cold. A knock sounded on my door. I guessed it would be Maria, here to order me to get dressed for the festival or prep me on all the important names and faces that would be attending Zeno’s coronation dinner.
I opened the door and my mouth fell open in surprise. Zeno stood before me, as handsome as ever, styled and groomed to perfection. He wore a navy-blue designer suit, white shirt and red tie. And in his hands were a dozen blood-red roses.
My immediate thought was that they were not white. That these twelve expensive roses didn’t hold a candle to the single white one Achille had left on my pillow the morning after we made love. The one that was now pressed between the pages of Plato’s Symposium. I had found the book in King Santo’s library on the second floor.
Strangely, it had still been out on his desk, the pages worn and well read. It was curious. I had never even heard of that book before I came here to Italy; suddenly it was all anyone seemed to be interested in.
I had taken the book back to my room, where I had read it cover to cover. Every time I read about split-aparts and lost, missing souls, I would yearn for Achille until it became almost unbearable.
“Zeno,” I finally said in surprise when his black eyebrows had begun to draw down at my muteness.
He thrust the roses into my hand. “Duchessa.” He leaned in to kiss both my cheeks. As his lips met my skin, I wanted to push him off. I didn’t want him this close. It felt as if my body was repelling his affection. Achille and I were magnetic; Zeno and I were opposing poles.
“You’re finally back,” I said, heading back into my room and putting the flowers into a large vase that sat in the center of the table; I would arrange them later.
“Just returned,” he said tightly. There was an edge to his voice that made me turn and face his direction. Zeno had walked a couple of feet into my living room. Gone was the relaxed, confident man I had met that first night here. In his place was a man who was stiff and cold.
He even seemed . . . sad.
I made myself smile. “I’m glad you’re back. I thought I was going to have to host the grape festival and your coronation alone. The festival I could have managed. But the coronation? Well, I think they may have detected an imposter king in me.”
Zeno walked to my open balcony doors and stepped outside. I followed, unsure what was wrong with him. His hands were resting on the ornate stone balustrade, his back tight and arms tense as he looked out over his land.
I stopped beside him, once again finding my peace in the view of Achille’s vineyard. Zeno pointed to the track I used most days. “I used to play on that track as a child. These fields were my home each summer when I was younger. Then my mother left my father and moved back to her parents’ home in Austria, and I was sent to Florence permanently.”
I knew Zeno’s mother and father had been married on paper alone. It was yet another truth that the aristocracy pretended wasn’t real—that Zeno’s mother had left her husband and son and never once returned. Of course, divorce wasn’t an option in our circles, certainly not in our devoutly Catholic society. My heart cried for Zeno in that moment. His mother had left him. I was sure from what my own mother and father had said that they were still not that close.
“Is your mother attending tonight?” I asked.
Zeno looked at me and laughed. Harsh, painful laughter. “No, Duchessa. She is not. My mother hasn’t graced Italy with her presence in over a decade.”
“But you’re her son,” I found myself arguing.
Zeno’s laughter stopped. “I’m my father’s son.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard of my reputation, Caresa? I’m the ‘Playboy Prince of Toscana’, following in the footsteps of my equally promiscuous father.”
“I have never heard your father referred to in such a way,” I said, conveniently leaving out that, of course, I had heard that said of Zeno.
“He was,” Zeno said plainly. “In his early life, and even when he was first married to my mother, his vice was women. It was only after she left us for Austria that he settled down, threw himself into the vineyards and the production of wine. But we were alike in more ways than I can count.”
I was surprised. I knew King Santo as many things, but a philanderer wasn’t one of them. “I didn’t know.”
Zeno nodded his head, but didn’t say another word on the matter.
“Are you excited for the coronation banquet tonight?” I asked, just to try and change the subject. The topic of his parents’ marriage was clearly a sore point.
“Ecstatic,” he droned sarcastically. Zeno loosened his tie from his neck and turned to lean his back against the railing. He looked at me, arms folded. “What have you been doing since I’ve been gone? The staff seem to think you are a little wild in your ways, preferring to traipse through the vineyards for hours at a time rather than hold lunches and dinners.”
Panic surged through me. I didn’t want him to know where I had been and what I had been doing. But then I thought of Rosa and the fact that many of the staff had seen me ride her daily. “I do prefer being outdoors,” I said with a nonchalant shrug. “And one of the winemakers has a horse that I ride. An Andalusian. They have allowed me to school her in dressage. I met them in my first few days, and we agreed I could ride their horse as it needed the training.”
Zeno smirked and shook his head, presumably at some internal joke. “Another dressage enthusiast? My father was the same. Always away with the Savona dressage and show jumping team when he wasn’t here.”
I was glad he didn’t push me for more information about the winemaker. I didn’t want him to suspect Achille of anything. Then again, I was unsure if Zeno even knew the name of the man who made this estate’s prize-winning wine.
“Horses over luncheons, hmm?” Zeno mused. “Maybe bringing you here to Bella Collina was a good idea after all.”
“Oh, I went to a couple of lunches with local ladies. And I hosted one luncheon. It was interesting, to say the least.” I pretended to think hard, then said, “Baronessa Russo spoke of you a great deal.”
Every part of Zeno froze, and then he sighed. “I’m sure she did.” He leaned in, so far that my nostrils became full of his expensive cologne. “I’m sure she did,” he said again, then, eyes lit with curiosity, asked, “Were you jealous?”
Zeno had told me we should always speak the truth, so I replied, “Not even a little bit.”
His eyes widened at my brazen honesty, then he laughed. Head thrown back, he laughed hard. He shook his head and turned again to stare out across the fields. “What a pair we make, Caresa.” Caresa. I found it interesting how he had dropped “Duchessa” and now called me by my name. Silence fell. I felt as if he wanted to say something, to talk of whatever was on his mind. But in the end, he straighte
ned without confiding a word. “I had better go and get ready. The festival guests will be arriving soon.”
“Yes, me too,” I agreed. Yet I wanted to question Zeno further. Wanted to ask him if he thought this whole engagement was a farce too. But I bit my tongue. He already looked defeated, for some reason. I didn’t want to add to his troubles. And I thought of my father, thought of how disappointed he would be if I questioned my duty.
I had been born for this.
Zeno nodded his head in goodbye and left. I dressed in the knee-length Versace dress that had been selected for me, slipping my arms into the long sleeves and smoothing the burgundy fabric over my hips. I paired it with my favorite black heels—ones I knew wouldn’t cause me any pain. Maria came through a short time later with a hair and makeup stylist. In less than an hour, I sported a fall-inspired makeup look and had my hair drawn back in an elegant low bun.
“The prince is waiting for you downstairs.” Maria directed me out of my rooms. As we walked the long hallways to the main set of stairs, she said, “This will consist of mostly local people, but some guests—wine enthusiasts, sommeliers—come from all over the world just to say they have crushed wine on Bella Collina’s famous land. And of course, we will have many of the aristocracy in attendance. Some have come early for the coronation and want to see the festival. They have been awarded rooms in the east wing of the house or in the guest lodgings in the courtyard.”
I nodded, trying to breathe through the sudden onslaught of nerves that flooded my stomach.
“You and the prince will start the grape-picking contest, and afterward award the winners on the stage in the courtyard. We have planned it all around the phone call at three p.m. from the Wine Awards. Of course, we are hoping and praying that we will win. I have organized for the guests of the festival to have a glass each of the merlot if we take the coveted prize.” She laughed. “I’m sure that’s why they are all here anyway, so they can have a glass without paying through the nose for a full bottle.”