daughter—the one who listened the most intently—as she tucked her beneath the bedcovers and pressed a kiss onto her forehead.
And one wise enough to believe in the beauty of her dreams!
But her mother was dead now, her dreams gone to dust. And Margherita was here, still living in the real world.
“Perhaps you do not know me so well as you think,” Margherita declared, remembering the tragic end of the love story of Nero and Poppaea.
He pivoted away. “Och! It is too much!”
“And what of your family, Margherita, eh, what of us?” Letitia intervened, preparing to mount a full attack. “Could we not all benefit from the florins Signor Sanzio has promised you? To help Father stop working so hard? Perhaps he would be able to hire an assistant to give his swollen ankles a rest.”
There had always been a rivalry between the two sisters. Letitia had been the first to marry, but Margherita was the more beautiful. And so, in her way, Letitia had always sought to undermine her sister’s dreams, encouraging her to marry Donato’s younger brother, Antonio, and to strive for no better than what she had. It was a future their father had sanctioned—and to which Margherita had grudgingly agreed.
“Do not lay it all at my feet, Letitia!” she argued.
“Is that not precisely where it lies?”
“My daughter is a fool!” said Francesco gruffly as he shuffled back to his daughters.
“Perhaps I am,
Padre mio.
But I will not be taken for granted—not by anyone!”
“Then you would do well to make your peace with life as a saddle boy’s wife! For that is surely the best fate has to offer Antonio!”
“You have always wanted me to marry him!”
“That was
before
I knew there might be another choice! Oh, I bid you, look beyond your nose, Margherita! There is a whole wide world out there, and none of us has ever had the chance to see any of it beyond the Via Santa Dorotea!”
“Is it my duty to go as if I were no better than the hound at the great painter’s heels? I know what you and Letitia want, both of you fawning over his grand clothes and his elegant friends. But the price for your ambition,
Padre mio,
is too high for me to pay!”
His small eyes narrowed and his face darkened with rage. “Where did a baker’s daughter from Trastevere learn to believe she was so high and mighty that she could walk away from a purse full of gold florins?”
“From the woman
you
married,
Padre mio.
”
“Is this chance not precisely what she desired for you?”
“Not with a man of his reputation! My mother married you against the wishes and advice of nearly everyone she knew. She trusted her own mind
and
her heart. Is that not the story you have always told us? She waited not for opportunity—but love!”
Francesco Luti shook his head and let a heavy sigh as his eyes filled with sudden tears. “God rest her precious soul, it was the truth. And God help us all . . . you are just like her.”
N EAR MIDNIGHT, when the workshop was cool and empty, and all of the assistants and apprentices were gone, Raphael stood alone at his easel with a wet portrait panel centered before him. Beside it on the worktable, draped with a paint-splattered sheet, was a large, untouched jug of wine, a wooden bucket full of dirty paint water, and cups stuffed with brushes. Pausing to study the image, he then filled his boar-bristle brush with a mixture of taupe and salmon pink paint, and skillfully applied it, causing a flesh and veined hand to burst forth.
The massive room was lit by two large oil lamps with smoking flames that cast their dancing shadows onto the wall behind him. Raphael felt a shiver of excitement—a kind of caged energy that coursed through him.
Dio,
it was good to work like this, he thought, good to connect with the panel, to feel the paint, to take the acrid smell of it into his lungs, to bring from nothing a representation of that which almighty God had created!
As I once did . . . as I
And one wise enough to believe in the beauty of her dreams!
But her mother was dead now, her dreams gone to dust. And Margherita was here, still living in the real world.
“Perhaps you do not know me so well as you think,” Margherita declared, remembering the tragic end of the love story of Nero and Poppaea.
He pivoted away. “Och! It is too much!”
“And what of your family, Margherita, eh, what of us?” Letitia intervened, preparing to mount a full attack. “Could we not all benefit from the florins Signor Sanzio has promised you? To help Father stop working so hard? Perhaps he would be able to hire an assistant to give his swollen ankles a rest.”
There had always been a rivalry between the two sisters. Letitia had been the first to marry, but Margherita was the more beautiful. And so, in her way, Letitia had always sought to undermine her sister’s dreams, encouraging her to marry Donato’s younger brother, Antonio, and to strive for no better than what she had. It was a future their father had sanctioned—and to which Margherita had grudgingly agreed.
“Do not lay it all at my feet, Letitia!” she argued.
“Is that not precisely where it lies?”
“My daughter is a fool!” said Francesco gruffly as he shuffled back to his daughters.
“Perhaps I am,
Padre mio.
But I will not be taken for granted—not by anyone!”
“Then you would do well to make your peace with life as a saddle boy’s wife! For that is surely the best fate has to offer Antonio!”
“You have always wanted me to marry him!”
“That was
before
I knew there might be another choice! Oh, I bid you, look beyond your nose, Margherita! There is a whole wide world out there, and none of us has ever had the chance to see any of it beyond the Via Santa Dorotea!”
“Is it my duty to go as if I were no better than the hound at the great painter’s heels? I know what you and Letitia want, both of you fawning over his grand clothes and his elegant friends. But the price for your ambition,
Padre mio,
is too high for me to pay!”
His small eyes narrowed and his face darkened with rage. “Where did a baker’s daughter from Trastevere learn to believe she was so high and mighty that she could walk away from a purse full of gold florins?”
“From the woman
you
married,
Padre mio.
”
“Is this chance not precisely what she desired for you?”
“Not with a man of his reputation! My mother married you against the wishes and advice of nearly everyone she knew. She trusted her own mind
and
her heart. Is that not the story you have always told us? She waited not for opportunity—but love!”
Francesco Luti shook his head and let a heavy sigh as his eyes filled with sudden tears. “God rest her precious soul, it was the truth. And God help us all . . . you are just like her.”
N EAR MIDNIGHT, when the workshop was cool and empty, and all of the assistants and apprentices were gone, Raphael stood alone at his easel with a wet portrait panel centered before him. Beside it on the worktable, draped with a paint-splattered sheet, was a large, untouched jug of wine, a wooden bucket full of dirty paint water, and cups stuffed with brushes. Pausing to study the image, he then filled his boar-bristle brush with a mixture of taupe and salmon pink paint, and skillfully applied it, causing a flesh and veined hand to burst forth.
The massive room was lit by two large oil lamps with smoking flames that cast their dancing shadows onto the wall behind him. Raphael felt a shiver of excitement—a kind of caged energy that coursed through him.
Dio,
it was good to work like this, he thought, good to connect with the panel, to feel the paint, to take the acrid smell of it into his lungs, to bring from nothing a representation of that which almighty God had created!
As I once did . . . as I
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