4. Chiara
— ? —
Chiara
The herb jars arrive from the village glassmaker while I’m finishing breakfast, and I spend the morning arranging them on the sample table in the courtyard.
I slept poorly. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Livia on the lakeshore, smiling at our joined hands while she explained away her presence with reserve counts and staging lists.
By morning the only useful answer I could find was work.
The winter sun is bright enough to warm my hands while I work, positioning each covered jar so visitors will be able to lift the lids without crowding each other.
Rosemary in the center, where the light catches the silvery leaves through the glass.
Sage to one side, thyme to the other. Lavender at the end, its lid fitted securely like the others, because the scent carries farther and I want people to discover it deliberately rather than have it drift toward them before they’re ready.
I leave the lavender jar in my hand and step back to check the arrangement, already smiling. This is what I know how to do.
This is where I belong, not at endless meetings defending my right to contribute, but here, hands busy, mind focused, creating something that will make people remember this place.
“Signora.” One of the kitchen staff, a young woman I’ve seen carrying trays but never spoken to directly, hesitates at the courtyard entrance. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.” I set down the lavender jar and give her my attention. She has been watching me work for the past few minutes, pretending to sweep the same patch of stone.
“The herb arrangement.” She glances at the table, then away. “Will there be… I mean, some of the staff were wondering if there might be changes to how the wine is served.”
“The wine service stays exactly as planned.” I keep my voice pleasant, though something in her hesitation makes me uneasy.
“The herbs are optional for guests who want to explore them during arrival. They’ll be cleared before the first pour, in the alcove beside the cellar entrance. Nothing about the wine changes.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean…” She trails off, her cheeks flushing. “It’s just that people have been saying… I’m sorry, signora. I shouldn’t have asked.”
She retreats before I can question her further, her broom sweeping a path that takes her as far from me as possible. I watch her go, my smile fading.
People have been saying. The whispers that started at the butcher’s shop have spread, then. I knew they would. I just didn’t expect to feel them in the way a kitchen maid can’t quite meet my eyes.
I return to the herb jars, adjusting positions that don’t need adjusting, and try to focus on the work instead of the knot forming in my chest. One week until the launch. Seven days to prove that I know what I’m doing, despite what is being said about me.
Rosalia appears at the courtyard entrance, slightly out of breath. “Signora, there’s a message from Donna Ortensia. She asks if you would join her for tea at eleven.”
I check the angle of the sun. Perhaps an hour from now. “Did she say why?”
“No, signora.” Rosalia’s hands twist in her apron, a nervous habit I’ve come to recognize. “But the housekeeper mentioned she’s been asking about the launch preparations.”
Asking about the launch. In two years of marriage, Lorenzo’s mother has summoned me to tea exactly twice.
Both times were formal occasions with other guests present, opportunities for her to display the appropriate family unity while saying almost nothing to me directly. A private summons is new territory.
“Tell her I’ll be there.” I brush the dust from my hands and survey the completed arrangement. “Which room?”
“The small sitting room.” Rosalia seems to understand why I hesitate, because she adds, “Just you, signora. No other guests.”
Not the formal parlor where she receives guests, then, but the private space where she takes her own tea. Whatever Ortensia wants, it’s not a performance for an audience.
***
The small sitting room is warmer than I expected, a fire crackling in the grate despite the mild morning. Ortensia sits in a high-backed chair near the window, the light catching the silver in her dark hair, her posture as straight as ever despite her years.
She looks up when I enter, and I’m struck again by how much Lorenzo resembles her. The same sharp cheekbones, the same assessing gaze, the same way of holding perfectly still while deciding what to think of you.
“Chiara.” She gestures to the chair across from her, where a tea service has already been laid out. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
I settle into the offered chair, accepting the cup she pours for me with murmured thanks. The tea is good, fragrant and properly steeped, and I take a sip while I wait for her to explain why I’m here.
“You’re wondering why I asked to see you.” Ortensia pours her own cup, her movements precise and unhurried. “After two years of keeping my distance.”
“The thought had occurred to me.” I put the cup down before she notices how carefully I am holding it. Apparently we are going to discuss the silence, which is considerably more frightening than sitting through another one.
“I owe you an explanation for that.” She meets my eyes directly, and I see something there I haven’t seen before.
Not warmth, exactly, but acknowledgment.
“When Cesare died, I retreated. From the household, from my son, from everything that reminded me of what I’d lost. By the time I emerged from that grief, you were already here, and I…
I should have noticed you sooner. Should have made more effort to know the woman my son married. ”
I wait, uncertain how to respond. This is not what I expected from Lorenzo’s formidable mother.
“I’ve been hearing about your plans for the launch.” Ortensia allows me the silence instead of making me assure her that her absence didn’t hurt. “The botanical elements, the aromatic accompaniments. The staff have been discussing it, and I made a point of asking questions.”
Here it comes. The criticism, the concern, the polite suggestion that I step back and let people with more experience handle things.
“I think it’s exactly what this estate needs.” She takes a sip of her tea, watching my reaction over the rim. “Something fresh. Something that honors Cesare’s work without being imprisoned by it.”
My hand stops halfway back to my cup. “You approve?”
“I do.” Her mouth curves in something that might almost be a smile. “My son defended your ideas in front of the valley families. Backed your vision despite the objections. That took courage, from both of you.”
The memory of that meeting warms me despite my confusion. Lorenzo standing beside me, his voice firm as he said we’re going with Chiara’s vision. And after, the boat ride, the strawberries, the kiss that tasted like chocolate and hope.
“He’s been better, lately. More present.” I had planned to keep that afternoon to myself, but I can’t quite hide the pleasure of remembering it.
“I’ve noticed.” Ortensia waits until I stop smiling before continuing. “Which is why I need to warn you about something. About Livia.”
My stomach tightens. “What about her?”
“She’s loved Lorenzo since she was twelve years old.
” Ortensia says it matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather.
“I’ve watched her grow up beside him, watched the way she looks at him when she thinks no one notices.
She’s never stopped hoping he would see her as something more than a friend. ”
My tea sits untouched while I try to decide what to ask first.
I suspected something like this, of course.
The way Livia watches Lorenzo, the possessiveness in her voice when she speaks of the estate, the hostility that flickers beneath her pleasant mask whenever I’m mentioned.
But hearing it confirmed, hearing that Ortensia has known for years, makes it suddenly, terribly real.
“Why are you telling me this now?” I don’t want to argue with the first person in this family willing to acknowledge what I see. I want to know where she was when I was trying to work it out alone.
“Because the launch is in one week, and Livia sees it as her territory.” Ortensia refills her cup, her movements still precise despite the weight of what she’s saying.
“She’s spent years building relationships with the staff, with the village, with everyone who matters to this estate.
I can’t prove she’s been deliberately working against you, but I’ve seen enough to worry. ”
“The whispers in the village.” I think of the kitchen maid’s hesitation, the way people look at me and then away. “Rosalia’s cousin heard her at the butcher’s shop, saying I don’t understand the land. That I’ll ruin the launch.”
“Yes.” Ortensia’s expression doesn’t change, but something in her eyes hardens. “Livia is careful. She frames her comments as concern rather than criticism, so anyone who repeats them sounds like they’re just passing along reasonable worries. But the effect is the same.”
“And you’ve known about her feelings for Lorenzo all this time.” I can’t quite keep the edge from my voice. “You’ve watched her position herself, build these relationships, and you said nothing.”
“I said nothing because I wasn’t paying attention to much of anything for a long while after Cesare died.” Ortensia meets my accusation directly. “And by the time I was, you and Lorenzo had your own patterns established. I couldn’t fix his marriage for him, Chiara. I still can’t.”
Can’t fix, or won’t interfere. I think of the way Lorenzo defends Livia whenever I raise concerns, the way he dismisses my worries.
He defended me beautifully four days ago, chose me in front of everyone who mattered.
But he still can’t seem to see what Livia is doing when I’m not standing right beside him.
“What do you suggest I do?” I have a rehearsal to lead in a few hours, with Livia standing in front of the same people I need to trust me. The warning is useful. A way through the afternoon would be better.