26. Theodora
26
THEODORA
FLORENCE
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T here’s no escaping the inspiration of the Tuscan hills, or the romance of Tristan and Isolde’s story. Flora currently plays an important part in my days, both in life and imagery. Tristan’s story ends with the lovers united in the afterlife, and their tombs entwined in verdant grapevines and ivy—or hazel and honeysuckle—depending on which version you read. Isolde is not depicted in any section of the Coperta di Usella , and I sip my wine at night and wonder why, when the embroidered iconography of tangled vines and flowers is present throughout the design.
My story is unfolding in my own quilt. Each evening, I take it to the terrace and bask in the last kiss of sunshine while I stitch, looking out over vineyards in the foothills before me. A breeze of fresh fusty earth and sweet-scented blossoms suggests a hint of spring, the time of rebirth and new life. I too am renewed.
And excited about my new venture.
I thread a needle, and my thoughts drift back to Luke . I was about to take a shower when his call took me by surprise. I’m not sure we’re on the same page. About anything.
When I told him I plan to run my project from the boutique and then expand into a larger premises as it progresses, Luke protested and tried to convince me otherwise. Typical .
‘ It won’t work there at the shop. You need open spaces that can be subdivided later if necessary,’ he scoffed. ‘ I’ve finished a reno on a great warehouse up for sale. If you’re looking to buy, it’s perfect for you. I’ll send photos…’
‘ No Luke . I told you. I’m ready to buy you out of the boutique.’
‘ Yeah , with the money that’s come your way from your gran. I guess you’re set.’ The comment irritated me.
The solicitor had barely emailed to confirm the funds from Gran’s investments had been released into my account, and to advise the transfer of Clarence to me would follow after probate. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to work out I’d be the recipient of Gran’s estate, in the same way Gran had inherited Clarence from her grandmother, Amelia . Luke’s comments felt crass and over the top.
His voice had held an edge of coolness, the tone he uses when he expects me to listen. It’s no use speaking to him in that frame of mind. But the snagging in my stomach made me uncomfortable.
Time to address the elephant in the room.
‘ When were you going to tell me about the baby, Luke ?’ I held my breath. Star told me his son was born—the Vic Ave grapevine had been working overtime.
‘ Oh , right,’ I heard his intake of breath, ‘well, here’s the thing. Turns out he’s not even mine…’
‘ What do you mean?’
‘ I had my suspicions all along, so insisted on a paternity test. He’s not mine, thank God . Some other sucker can pay for him for the next eighteen years.’
His dismissive attitude to his child was a shock. A cold hand pushed on my chest as though my heart was being squeezed tight and crushed in his palm. I’d quickly hung up, making an excuse.
Luke can sort out his own life.
It’s time I took control of mine.
The Trevelyan horse now fills one corner of my quilt while the fleur-de-lis, or il giglio —the symbol of Florence as it is known here—is prominently positioned in the centre. The emblem is stamped on the heraldry of everything from football team kits to flapping insignias on flagpoles. It feels right to include it, perhaps to signify my travel or time in Florence ? Funny , but I used to doodle a similar flower in the margins of my schoolbooks.
My interpretation represents Beatrice , Esther and me. Three sisters. Three horns and three fleurs-de-lis on the knights’ shields. The power of three surrounds me—it’s ever-present in my days. If I was religious, I might note the importance of the Holy Trinity to Italy too, and the homage paid in Florentine art and architecture.
As I work, there are moments when memories of my early years appear in fragments like jagged pieces of a broken mirror, but in an instant, they disappear. I guess processing my past will take a little longer.
W e conservators focus with heads bowed low; it’s fascinating to imagine medieval women in the same pose. Did they experience a similar level of excitement and pressure to have the coperta finished? Perhaps they attended a feast to commemorate the wedding? It’s more likely they were slaves who knew nothing about the couple the gift was intended for. These are the thoughts that spin in my head as I work.
Seams have been reinforced and we add the last of the repairs to previous poorly executed repairs of the figurative design. After centuries of use, such intervention is expected. Signora Vecchia met with us to discuss the best methods for correct storage of the coperta before we move towards documenting the technical fabrications and reports. The opening of the exhibition is two weeks away. My time here is almost at an end.
The scene we work today shows the crowd welcoming Tristan’s victorious return. Men and women surround his horse, and the smiles of his supporters are radiant.
As I reinforce the three horns on Tristan’s shield, I think about the way the prominent family who commissioned the quilts placed themselves within the legend to pass on their story.
The two knights face each other with the emblems on their surcoats and shields clearly visible.
Rosie and I had discussed the significance on a recent call.
‘ If it’s not the fleur-de-lis, I’m dreaming of three horns over and over, Rose . They’re sending me cross-eyed.’
‘ That type of canting device—or pun, if you like—was employed in art forms as visual representation and identification of prominent people of the time. The same way cartoons play a part in political satire, or memes in popular culture.’
Rosie’s voice levitated an octave with her enthusiasm for the topic. ‘ The arms on Tristan’s shield flatter the family by association with the popular Arthurian narrative. They announce that Tristan —their family—is victorious.’
‘ And does Morholt’s fleur-de-lis tie the wife-to-be to the House of Anjou ?’
‘ No , it’s more a declaration of the family’s power in politics and trade, showing that they overcame those with an association to Norman rule.’
It’s impossible to work on the knight in the quilt without his namesake in my thoughts. Tristan of Lyonesse had a duty to his uncle the king, just as Tristan has to consider his commitment to his family—and to Stephanie .
Rosie said he’s back in London . I wish him well. I replay our night over and over. My entire body tingles, remembering his gentle touch. The sense of him.
We haven’t spoken. His silence makes it clear he was caught up in the romance of Taormina too. He’s probably forgotten all about it. One last fling…
Maria stands and stretches. The last hours of the assignment are here. I’ll miss these beautiful women, Maria most of all. We share a silent connection, comfortable in the solace of each other’s company.
Domenica chatters excitedly about the exhibition. Textile historians and experts from around the world will view the medieval coperta for the first time. Signora Vecchia has encouraged us to invite friends and loved ones to join us on opening night.
Domenica asks if there’s anyone special in my life. A blush gives me away.
‘ Eccola !’ She waves a finger and smirks. ‘ Is he handsome? Does he make you laugh?’
‘ No . There’s no one.’ I smile. It’s the truth. With a shrug, I lower my eyes to my work. They seem to understand I’ve suffered pain in the past, but it’s Maria who pats my knee, telling me to wait for the right man, to watch carefully for the signs.
‘ Trust is molto importante ,’ she says. Her lidded eyes are glassy with tears. ‘ You can be friends with your grande amore ; you can learn to love a friend. But without trust, there is no future. You must believe you deserve love, cara mia . Then the right man—he will come. Be patient. Love takes time.’
Maria is salt of the earth, as Gran used to say. She wants me to be happy. I know I will be. I choose me. Inspired by the beauty and art of Italy and the generosity of the people I work with here, my new venture is my future. It will be my legacy. In the same way the coperta reported the history of one family’s prominence, I’m excited about helping young people find their voices and tell their stories.
On my way home Rosie’s text interrupts my daydreams.
Looking forward to the big night. Tristan and Kit are in— don’t roll your eyes, Kit’s a big bear but loads of fun— Stephanie too .
I bite my lip at a vision of Stephanie : her blonde hair shining like gold, her long fingers clinging to Tristan’s arm. They are well suited. I hope they’ll be happy together. No doubt it will delight his father.
That night in Taormina was a mistake for us both. But if Tristan’s coming to the opening, then he must be comfortable blocking it out as well. Thank goodness we are both sensible enough to recognise it for what it was and move on.