The Dark Heart of Florence

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  For Alexander, whose work on Lucretius was essential to this book. Someday we will visit Florence together.

  The deceiver is at the mercy of the one he deceives.

  —GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO, The Decameron

  London,

  1903

  1

  Before plunging into my narrative, I must first state categorically that no reasonable person could have anticipated a murdered corpse turning up in my stepdaughter’s bed. I reject all charges of insensitivity lobbed at me following those chaotic and desperate days in Florence. It should also be noted that Kat was not in her room, let alone her bed, during the moment in question, a detail that surely must mitigate the situation.

  It all began on a seemingly mundane Tuesday. As a rule, I do not take naps. Much though I appreciate the wisdom of a siesta in hot, southern climates, it can hardly be justified on our sceptered isle. Our rocky shore may beat back the envious siege, but given our geography, we’re more likely to be plagued with cold rain than a lethargy-inducing heat wave. On that day, however, I did succumb to slumber, and I lay the blame entirely on my dear friend Cécile du Lac. A relentlessly elegant Parisian of a certain age who, after more than a dozen years of friendship still hides from me her family’s involvement in the French Revolution, Cécile had long harbored a passion for bohemian sensibilities. The latest manifestation of this leaning was her decision to embrace the designs of a Belgian architect, Henry van de Velde. Not the designs of his buildings but of ladies’ dresses. For reasons incomprehensible to me, he turned part of his attention to fashioning gowns in a reform sort of style, not requiring a corset. Granted, no one who has spent decades encased in such undergarments would mourn their demise, at least not entirely, yet one might also hope for something rather less frumpy than Mr. van de Velde’s creations.

  Cécile, a fellow devotee of the cosmopolitan House of Worth, sent a van de Velde original cut to my measurements and implored me to give myself the gift of comfort at least once before condemning the dress to flames. And so, that morning, Meg, my maid, lowered it over my head, frowning the entire time. Fitted only through the bosom, its fabric—dark red velvet—flowed freely to the floor, enabling the wearer to both breathe freely and slouch. Attractive it might not be, but what did it matter when I planned to spend the day in my library, reading?

  I went downstairs intent on doing just that, only to find that for me, certain books might indeed require a corset. Relishing the freedom of movement Mr. van de Velde’s gown allowed, I stretched out on a long chesterfield sofa and fell asleep before I’d got through a dozen pages. Sometime later, a voice I did not recognize woke me.

  “The world can change in an instant. It falls on gentlemen like us to determine the course of that change. What you have done, Hargreaves, is nothing short of saving the empire. His Majesty is beyond grateful.”

  I was about to sit up and announce myself when my husband’s reply stopped me cold.

  “I fear it may not be enough,” Colin said. “The danger is alleviated but not eliminated.”

  I do not condone eavesdropping. It is underhanded; dishonorable; and something a lady should never, ever do. It is also undeniably useful. Furthermore, when one is thrust accidentally into a theoretically private conversation, as was the case that October afternoon, it is less morally dubious. I lay perfectly still, not allowing myself even to blink.

  “Alleviated enough that you are free to deal with the situation in Florence. Once that’s in hand, you can return your focus to this other business. But while you’re away, the prescribed methods to contact me, yes? This is not the time for open communication.”

  “Quite. I’ll spend as little time as possible abroad, sir. This won’t prove a distraction.”

  “I’d choose a different tack, Hargreaves. Bring your wife and give every appearance of this being a holiday. Gaze on Michelangelo’s masterpieces and climb the steps to the lantern of Brunelleschi’s dome.”

  “You believe there’s a connection between this and the other?” Colin asked.

  “We cannot afford to dismiss the possibility. Your daughter is safely at Oxford, is she not?” My husband must have nodded; the other man continued. “I’ll put two on to watch her. She’ll be in no danger while you’re away.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Colin’s clipped tone told me he was not wholly convinced.

  “Three, if you’ll feel better. And make use of Benton-Smith. He’s at Lake Garda, but could get to Florence easily enough.”

  “I shall get in touch with him at once.”

  The conversation descended into social niceties as they parted ways. Only when I heard their footsteps trail through the library and out into the corridor did I sit up and lift the book resting on my chest. I have never hidden my love for sensational literature and have long counted Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s novels among my favorite diversions. Today, however, I had turned to William Le Queux, not one of his myriad detective stories but the breathless tales of Duckworth Drew, “chief confidential agent of the British Government, and next to Her Majesty’s Secretary of State, one of the most powerful and important pillars of England’s supremacy.” They were not quite so engaging as I had hoped—as evidenced by my having fallen asleep reading them—but I could not help notice the similarities between Mr. Drew’s work for his country and that of my husband’s.

  From almost the moment he completed his studies at Cambridge—Trinity College—Colin had served as one of Queen Victoria’s most trusted agents, charged with assisting the Crown in matters requiring a modicum of discretion. Or so I had understood early in our relationship. As the years passed, it became clear his work entailed more than helping aristocrats out of embarrassing situations; and since the succession of Edward VII to the throne, official demands on his time had increased steadily. Naturally, he was not at liberty to discuss any of this with me, and naturally that only heightened my curiosity. As there existed no legitimate method for me to satisfy this curiosity, I indulged my imagination and turned to Le Queux.

  I closed the book, rose from the chesterfield, and crossed the room to my desk, where I was standing when my husband entered.

  “Hello, where did you come from?” he asked, drawing a hand through his tousled dark curls, his manner breezy and casual. “I thought you were upstairs.”

  “I’ve just come down.” As the words came out of my mouth I wondered why I had decided to lie. “Have we had a visitor? I thought I heard the door.”

  “Sir John Burman proffering an invitation to a shooting party. I declined for a multitude of reasons. He sends you his regards.” His own falsehood rendered mine more palatable.

  More than a year had passed since Katharina von Lang, Colin’s hitherto-unknown grown daughter, had disrupted our bucolic family life. My initial acquaintance with her proved challenging to us both, but I had done my best to welcome her into our household. Although the spe
cter of her late mother, whom Colin had loved long before we met, still haunted me, I found Kat’s quick wit and intelligence endearing, at least when she resisted the urge to sermonize about wicked stepmothers. The situation called for understanding. She had lost a mother she’d hardly known; that she would not immediately embrace me came as no shock.

  Introducing her to our three sons, Henry, Richard, and Tom (currently all at Anglemore Park, our country estate in Derbyshire; I had come to London alone to meet my husband upon his return from weeks abroad), had proved shockingly easy. At seven years old (technically our ward, Tom, was a few months older than his brothers), none of them had much interest in a girl of any age. They dismissed her as a boring grown-up until Henry realized her potential as a useful ally. In possession of a fortune of her own (albeit one her mother’s solicitor would control until she turned twenty-five), she could buy sweets without begging for spending money. They accepted her without reservation. Less simple was introducing her to my mother.

  Lady Catherine Bromley could be accurately described neither as understanding nor accepting, particularly when it came to matters that might prove socially embarrassing, a camp into which illegitimate children unquestionably fall. Colin and I broke the news to her at my parents’ home in Kent. She fainted and refused to be brought around for forty-five minutes; the deep frown frozen on her face the entire time told me she was not, in fact, unconscious. My father, accustomed to her dramatics, was unmoved. He called for his newspaper and read it without giving her so much as a passing glance until she made a great display of coming round, at which point she insisted we bring Kat to her the next day. Their meeting did not go quite as I had expected.

  “No, no, my dear, you must not adopt so coarse a nickname. Katharina is much more elegant, suitable for the daughter of a countess,” my mother had said.

  “I shall rely on you, Lady Bromley, to guide me through society. London is so different from a convent school.”

  Kat’s effort to torment me by manufacturing a closeness to my own mother could not have been more misguided. She tried, though, and spent several months under a most unpleasant tutelage before recognizing her error and decamping to St. Hilda’s, Oxford. This suited me well, as my friend Margaret Michaels, wife of an Oxford don, had recently given birth to an adorable baby boy. This having led to inconceivably tragic boredom (her words), she welcomed Kat into her household, delighted at having someone new to converse with, even if Kat’s interests did not intersect with Margaret’s passion for Latin.

  “I do wish I hadn’t missed Sir John,” I said to my husband, turning my thoughts back to the present. “Such an amusing gentleman.”

  Colin’s eyebrows shot nearly to his hairline. “I’m afraid I see rather less of his humor than of his devotion to king and country.”

  I fluttered my eyes. “Surely you don’t expect a silly girl like me to be more concerned with work than amusement?”

  “You’re dreadful, Emily.” He took my hand and raised it to his lips, his dark eyes intense. “You know I would tell you more about my work if it were possible. That I can’t is in no way a comment on either your intelligence or your gender.”

  “I know, I know, it’s not me. You can’t take anyone into your confidence.”

  He shifted uneasily and sighed. “It’s a matter of—”

  I put my palm on his cheek. “I’m only teasing you. I know how important your work is.” I felt guilty for having overheard his conversation. “Surely Sir John wouldn’t object to you taking a little holiday after all the weeks you’ve just spent doing heaven only knows what while I waited, not asking a single question.”

  “My dear, in all the years that I have known you, you’ve never gone more than two hours together without asking impertinent questions about my work.”

  “I had rather hoped you find it endearing,” I said.

  “I do.” He pulled me close and kissed me. “As things stand, Sir John himself made the same suggestion of a holiday. What would you say to Florence?”

  “A busman’s holiday, then, that involves determining who broke into Kat’s house there?”

  “How do you know about that?” he asked.

  “Davis knows better than to hide burglaries from me.” My incomparable butler had been with me longer than Colin, and while he objected to some—many—of my unconventional habits, I never doubted his stalwart devotion. My husband raised his eyebrows again, and now it was my turn to sigh. “I can’t wrongly impugn Davis. He didn’t tell me. I knew you’d received a telegram. When you didn’t mention it, I read it for myself.”

  “When? It was in my study—”

  “On your desk, where I perched while watching you solve a particularly egregious chess problem. You were too focused to notice me pick it up.”

  “I’m ashamed it was chess, not you, that distracted me so,” he said, pulling me even closer.

  “I wouldn’t be so underhanded as to use my wiles to distract you,” I said. “That would be unfair.”

  “No secret of the realm could remain safe.”

  “I shall bear that in mind. Now, tell me everything.”

  Along with a substantial fortune, Kat’s mother had left her daughter a palazzo in Florence not far from the Uffizi Gallery. Kat had planned to live there, but upon learning the identity of her father the previous year, decided to locate him first. Needless to say, Colin objected to the idea of his newly found offspring living abroad, alone and unprotected. He persuaded her to come to England with us and was confident her studies at Oxford would keep her from returning to the Continent. At least for now.

  “If you read the telegram, you know as much as I,” he said. “The house has been broken into twice, but so far as anyone can tell, nothing was stolen either time.”

  “Which suggests something other than an ordinary burglar.”

  “It might be nothing more than an incompetent thief who is easily scared off. I’d feel better looking into it myself, and it gives us an excuse to explore Florence,” he said. “You ought to invite Cécile to accompany us. It’s been too long since we’ve seen her.”

  I kept every muscle in my face as still as a statue. Cécile had not only spent New Year with us but had hosted us for a fortnight in Paris not two months ago. That Colin wanted her to join us told me in no uncertain terms that there was more to this break-in than he was letting on; he wanted me to have a friend to keep me occupied while he worked. I once again resorted to fluttering my eyelashes and then cooed over his suggestion, leaving him in no doubt that I was onto him. He said nothing, only leaned forward as if to kiss me, before changing course and sweeping me into his arms so that he could carry me upstairs to our room.

  It was an excellent attempt at a distraction, one that worked almost flawlessly. He forgot, however, that despite his talent as a cricketer, I could play the long game better than he. After he’d drifted into a blissful sleep, I remained awake, already plotting my strategy for Florence.

  Florence,

  1480

  2

  Any discussion of Florence in those already fabled days must begin with the acknowledgment of it as the most glorious city in the world. Here, learned men debated Neoplatonism while the most sublime artists in history brought their work to ever-greater heights. There was no better time—or place—to be alive. Only a year or so ago, our leader, Lorenzo de’ Medici, il Magnifico, upon learning that King Ferrante of Naples was scheming to assassinate him, rushed straight to the citadel of his enemy to demand an explanation. Not only did he survive the encounter, he emerged with the king as an ally. This is the sort of character necessary to impress us Florentines.

  These were days when anything seemed possible. We did not feel bound by the rules that governed the world’s more mundane places; we took for granted our exceptionalism. Our building materials came from our city, the sandstone of our houses quarried within the town’s medieval walls and held together with mortar formed with sand from the Arno. Those golden-brown façades hid the monst
rous arrogance behind the quest for our cathedral’s magnificent dome, designed before anyone knew how it might be built. Yes, the Duomo glorified God, but one could not separate the achievement from the genius of the men behind it. We all marveled at Brunelleschi’s creation, never balking at his background as a goldsmith and clockmaker. We were not trapped by our pasts. At least our men weren’t.

  For most girls, the city was less vibrant. They stayed inside, where they would not risk bringing dishonor to their families, waiting to be told who they would marry, warned against even being seen looking out the windows of the palazzi in which they dwelled. But I, Mina Portinari, had grown up with a freedom shared by few of my peers, thanks to my unconventional grandfather Teo Portinari, an extraordinarily learned man who, after serving the pope, embarked on a quest to help Cosimo de’ Medici and his heirs find books lost since the days of antiquity. When he returned to his native city, the upper echelons of society embraced him. While my friends learned how to run complicated households, my grandfather taught me to read Latin and Greek and took me to il Magnifico’s villa to visit his giraffe. I fed it an apple, delighted at the feeling of the beast’s impossibly long tongue against my hand. Nonno let me dine at his table with artists and great thinkers, my parents too busy with their own lives to take much notice. His guests called me charming and complimented my bright blond hair, competing to see who could bring forth my eager laughter. Until I grew old enough to stir in them other longings.

  That was when my mother interfered. Which explains why I have no more intellectual evenings. Instead, I help her balance household accounts, manage servants and slaves, and am only allowed out of our palazzo to go to church or, accompanied by my mother, to visit friends. When I complained to my compatriots, they teased me mercilessly. I was living the way they had always done, and they had no sympathy for my plight, leaving me to wonder if never having known the delights of academic conversation would be preferable to missing them so keenly.