Rose Red (7 page)

Rosalinda stifled a gasp. Her mother would
never let Bartolomeo send such a message, and Bartolomeo knew it.
Bartolomeo seldom lied. That he had done so in front of her was
surprising, but she thought she understood why he had done it. He
wanted to learn as much as he could from Andrea, so he could relay
what he discovered to Eleonora.

“You asked me similar questions last night,”
Andrea said to Bartolomeo. “I told you then, as I tell you now,
that I believe they are all dead. All of them,” he repeated,
turning his face away and swallowing hard as if fighting back
tears.

A faint rustle of silk skirts made Rosalinda
turn her own head. Her mother had come quietly into the room.
Eleonora moved forward, apparently with the intention of taking up
the interrogation Bartolomeo had begun.

“Where did you live before you took to
wandering in the mountains, Signore Andrea?” Eleonora asked with a
certain threatening edge to her words.

“
Madonna.” Andrea met Eleonora’s eyes squarely and spoke
with every appearance of complete honesty. “No person outside your
household knows I have come here, nor could anyone have tracked me
to this place. I will impose upon your hospitality only so long as
I must in order to regain my health. I beg you to respect my
privacy and not question me about my past or my family. And since I
perceive that you are also bent upon maintaining your privacy from
the world, I do solemnly swear upon my mother’s soul – which I
devoutly trust rests even now in heaven – upon my mother’s soul, I
say, and upon my own hope of a reunion with her in heaven one day,
I do swear to you that I will never reveal the location of this
villa, nor the name of anyone who lives here.”

“Fine words,” said Eleonora. “I am sure you
mean them, too. But I have heard of tortures that could wring
information out of an unwilling saint.”

“Mother!” cried Rosalinda. “What kind of
hospitality is this, to speak so to a guest, and a sick man at
that?”

“I believe Signore Andrea knows whereof I
speak,” said Eleonora, her gaze still on the man in the bed.

“Yes, madonna, I do.” Andrea’s finely shaped
mouth pulled into a bitter line; his brown eyes grew hard at some
distant memory. “Very well, let me revise my oath. I will promise
nothing beyond what flesh and bone can endure, but I assure you,
madonna, that I have no desire to cause harm to those who have
shown kindness to me when all the rest of the world has turned
against me.”

“That is better,” Eleonora said. “An oath to
do your best to honor my need for privacy I can accept and trust.
Nor, honoring your own wish for privacy, will I ask at what court
you have lived and there learned to make extravagant promises using
poetic words.” Eleonora paused, considering Andrea’s serious
face.

“You are welcome to stay with us for as long
as you want,” she said. To Rosalinda she added, “Come now, child.
While you have been nursing Signore Andrea, Bianca has done your
morning chores for you. It is past time for your lessons to
begin.”

Rosalinda was so shocked by Eleonora’s words
to Andrea that she could only rise in silent response to her
mother’s order. She could scarcely believe that Eleonora had just
invited Andrea to remain at the villa. The only guests they ever
had were Luca and his trusted servant. Any other travelers, lost or
otherwise, were turned away by the men-at-arms and directed to the
village, to seek shelter there. Eleonora must have her own reasons
for her unexpected generosity to Andrea.

More secrets,
Rosalinda thought, knowing the chances were good
that she would never learn what those secrets were.

“Lessons?” Andrea said. “Lessons in what, may
I ask?”

“In Latin.” Rosalinda answered him with a
grimace. “Also Greek, which I like just a little less than Latin.
And lessons in history, which I do find very interesting.”

“I can understand a young woman being trained
in ancient languages,” said Andrea, “perhaps even training in
rhetoric. But history? What an odd subject for a woman to
read.”

“It is not odd at all,” Eleonora said. “Only
by understanding the past can we hope to improve upon it, or avoid
repeating unfortunate mistakes.”

“You are wise, madonna.” Andrea’s smile was
sad. “I have known men who might have profited from your lessons,
if only they had learned them in time.”

Later that day Andrea developed a high fever.
He lay tossing and muttering in bed, clearly unaware of where he
was. They all took turns nursing him. When Rosalinda was with him,
she listened to the sounds he made, trying to distinguish words,
but nothing he said made any sense to her. Except for one phrase.
Andrea clung to her hand and over and over again said the same
thing.

“The girl. The girl.”

“What girl?” she asked, fearing he might have
a lover somewhere far away, where his real life was.

“Rosalinda,” he
whispered. “Rosalinda.”

Overwhelmed by an unfamiliar tenderness,
Rosalinda lifted his hand to her cheek and held it there. The
mystery that lay about Andrea like a heavy cloak, and the
masculinity inherent in him despite his present physical debility,
together beckoned to all that was feminine in Rosalinda. Andrea
intrigued her, and tempted her to dream…

“Not a usual name,” he said suddenly, his
liquid brown gaze fixed upon her face. He seemed rational and so,
in an attempt to prevent his mind from drifting back into the
shadowy realm of fever, she told him how she had come by her
name.

“
In fact,
Rosalinda is Spanish,” she told him. “I was tiny and red when I was
born and my first baby hair was red, too. When my mother’s old
Aragonese nurse took me from the midwife’s hands, I curled up into
a little knot, at which the nurse cried out in her native
tongue,
‘¡
Ay, que rosa Linda!’
which is to say, ‘Oh, what a pretty rose!’ My
father was in the room, and when he heard the nurse’s exclamation
he declared it was the only name for me. That same day î was
baptized Rosalinda Maria.”

“A pretty story for a pretty girl,” Andrea
murmured. “You are like a rose, sweet and fragrant.” On those last
words, his voice drifted off.

“Andrea?” Rosalinda lifted his hand, which
she was still holding, and pressed his fingers to her lips. “Don’t
give way to the fever. Try to keep your thoughts here, with
me.”

“Beautiful,” he muttered again. “Gloriously
free. Rosalinda!”

“Andrea, look at me,” she begged. “Please
look at me.”

But his
brief period of awareness of her presence had ended. Andrea was
already slipping back into a state of semi-consciousness. Once more
his breath became labored. He tossed and wept and cried out over
and over for someone whose name Rosalinda could not understand
because his voice was so choked and ragged. All she could do for
him was put cloths wrung out in cool water on his brow and hold his
hands when he thrashed about too wildly. She talked to him, but he
did not seem to hear her.

“Just as I feared,” Valeria said when she
came to relieve Rosalinda. “There can be no doubt now that he has
lung fever. Help me to pile the pillows behind him so we can raise
him and ease his breathing.9’

“Will he live?” As she spoke, Rosalinda was
following Valeria’s directions, heaping pillows against the head of
the bed. “We cannot let him die.”

Valeria gave her a sharp look before lifting
Andrea so he was almost sitting against the pillows.

“Please, Valeria, tell me the truth. Can you
save him?”

“It is not up to me,” Valeria said. “I will
do everything I can to help him, but in the end, the recovery of
any sick person is in the hands of the Lord.”

“Only tell me what to do and I will do
it.”

“Begin by going below to join your mother and
Bianca for the evening meal,” Valeria said. “Don’t object,
Rosalinda, and be sure you eat well. If you want to be of help to
Andrea, you must take care not to fall ill yourself. Surely, you
can see the sense in that.”

“I do.” Rosalinda brushed Andrea’s dark hair
off his burning forehead. “I will return as soon as I have
eaten.”

“What you will do,” Valeria said, “is stay
with your mother and sister for a while, before you retire to bed
and sleep the night through. If you do not, I will refuse to allow
you back into this room tomorrow, when it is your turn to sit with
him.”

“You are a hard taskmaster, Valeria.”

“And you are a stubborn, willful girl.”
Valeria’s smile and the gentle caress she bestowed on Rosalinda’s
cheek took all the sting out of her words. “Because you are so
stubborn, and because I love you so well, I want you to do as I
say. You are looking pale, and Bianca tells me you have lost your
appetite.”

Knowing Valeria was right and that she was
stern enough to keep anyone who disobeyed her away from the
sickroom as threatened, Rosalinda tried to follow her orders. She
changed her dress and went down to the evening meal. After the meal
she sat in her mother’s sitting room, playing with Bianca’s kitten
and talking with her mother and sister, but her thoughts, and her
heart, were above, with the man lying ill in the guest room
bed.

Andrea lay near death for three days and
three nights. On the fourth morning, Rosalinda entered the sickroom
at her usual time to find a weary Valeria spooning soup into him.
It took only a glance to tell Rosalinda that Andrea’s condition was
much improved. Gratitude to heaven for sparing him, and to Valeria
for her nursing care, overwhelmed Rosalinda, leaving her
temporarily speechless.

“
The
fever broke during the night,” Valeria said when she noticed
Rosalinda. “He is still very weak, but I am sure now that he will
live. Don’t talk to him too much while you sit with him, Rosalinda.
Let him rest, and please remember that someone who has been
desperately ill – especially an active, vigorous man – is certain
to suffer from downcast spirits until he recovers his full
strength.”

Having finished feeding Andrea the soup,
Valeria left to seek her own bed and Rosalinda sat down in her
place next to Andrea. He lay quietly, his eyes on her face.

“You do look much better today.” Rosalinda
smiled at him, expecting an answering smile. Instead, Andrea turned
his head away from her.

“Andrea, you must not be discouraged. It will
take a while for you to recover completely.”

“What does it matter whether I am strong or
weak?” he whispered. “I have lost everything. Family, friends,
position, all are gone.”

“That is what my mother might have said,
years ago when we first came to this villa,” Rosalinda told him.
“But she never lost hope. Neither must you.”

“Your mother had you and your sister,” Andrea
said. “Whatever the events that led her to seek refuge in these
mountains, she still had loyal friends in Bartolomeo and Valeria.
Whereas I am alone.”

“No, you are not alone. I am here. So are the
others, all of them, Bianca and Mother, Valeria and Bartolomeo. We
are your new friends.” Unable to prevent herself from seeking
physical contact with him, Rosalinda put her hand over his. Andrea
did not respond, but neither did he withdraw his hand from her
touch.

Andrea was silent, as if he could not argue
against her logic. After a while he asked, “Why does one man live
while another, possibly a much better man, dies?”

“I do not know,” Rosalinda said. “Andrea, it
is clear to me that a great loss is weighing on your heart. If it
would help you to talk about it, I will keep your confidence.”

“I am sure you would,” he responded. “But I
cannot burden you with knowledge that might put you into danger.
No, my dear Rosalinda, this matter I must keep to myself.”

He said no more on the subject and Rosalinda
had the impression that he was trying hard to dismiss his sad
thoughts and be cheerful. He was basically a strong and healthy
young man. Now that he was relieved of the stress of trying to
survive in the wild, now that he was sheltered and fed regularly
and the fever was gone from him, his condition improved with
astonishing speed.

Careful probing by Rosalinda of her mother
and sister, and of Bartolomeo and Valeria, revealed that Andrea had
not mentioned to anyone else the sorrow with which he was
wrestling. The fact that he had spoken of it only to her made her
feel even closer to him.

Not that he displayed an overt affection for
her. He was the very soul of discretion. Any casual observer might
have thought that he enjoyed the company of Valeria or Eleonora or
Bianca as much as that of Rosalinda. Only rarely did Rosalinda
intercept a soft glance from his brown eyes that hinted at a warmer
feeling toward her than toward the other ladies. Always, with him
or apart from him, in Rosalinda’s own heart there resided a sense
of connection to Andrea, as if their fates were woven together. He
remained a fascinating enigma to her, but if they were given enough
time, she was sure he would reveal the mystery that bound him to
silence about his past.

While he was still at that stage in his
recuperation during which he was restless without being able yet to
get out of bed for any length of time, she read to him. Her
discovery that he preferred Petrarch’s sonnets to Dante’s long,
allegorical poetry suggested to her that their minds were well
matched. She was even more convinced of this when he confided that
he, too, had disliked learning Latin. She treasured the hours they
spent alone together.

Then, to Rosalinda’s surprise, Bianca began
to join her in Andrea’s room with some frequency, saying she ought
to take a turn at reading, too. Once, when Rosalinda had stayed
behind in her mother’s sitting room to find a particular book she
wanted from the shelves there, she walked into Andrea’s chamber to
discover Bianca smoothing back his hair and offering a cup of wine
to him. Later, Bianca provided an explanation.