My family.
His voice played over and over in her head.
How could you put your own needs before the good of my family?
It was not their family; it was not the family. His family, he'd called it. She'd saved his life, risked her own, and road her stallion into the Signoria; yet, she had put her own needs before the good of his family. He was alive. He had made his return to Florence; he was alive and had returned to Florence with his family. Yet she'd committed an unforgivable treason.
"Always a failure, Contessina," she said aloud to herself, sitting before an empty sheet of parchment. She'd distracted herself with letters to her husband, son, and daughter-in-law the year they were gone. Now that they'd returned, her distraction tactics were void. Instead, she closed herself behind heavy doors and prayed the man she called husband would enter her chambers while hoping he'd notice her reclusiveness and allow her to keep her solitude.
A muffled knock came, and a meek servant girl entered.
"Pardon, Madonna, I am to see to your basin."
Contessina nodded and watched as the girl in her peripheral filled the pitcher with water and emptied and wiped out the basin next to her bed. No sooner had she come was she gone.
Cosimo entered her room.
They'd fought.
"I was alone here at the mercy of Albizzi's thugs and yet I still did everything I could to secure your return. My God, I even spied for you. While you were away delighting in all that Venice has to offer," Contessina spat at her husband.
"You are in no position to judge me, woman. Considering your flirtation with Ezio Contarini." Contessina felt hurt rise up in her only to have it overcome with embarrassment that her husband had been told. As soon as its wave rushed over her it retreated and left only spite fuming within.
"Yes, I flirted with him. He even asked me to go away, but I didn't. I stayed for our family. I stayed for you!" Contessina longed to barge out of the room. She took a step forward but Cosimo's arm shot out in front of her.
"You want me to thank you? That was your duty as my wife!"
"What of your duty as my husband?" Tension rose between them. Cosimo leaned in and kissed his wife hard. With all her might, Contessina pushed him away, her heart beating like a warhorse.
"I stopped Lorenzo from marching on Florence with Sforza's army. I kept Piero and Lucrezia from the scandal of an executed father. I kept you alive, Cosimo. It is because of me that you have even the chance of returning to the only thing you've ever truly loved. You're beloved Florence."
The air in the room grew heavy, as if there was too much of it to breathe and its weight could crush anyone in it.
"Florence is my legacy, Contessina. My family's blood runs through its streets."
"Yes, you're family. Your family is all you ever think of. Am I not a part of the family?" Wet hurt flooded the woman's voice. "Have I not earned at least that? To be a part of your family."
"Yes, but—"
"I saved your life for our family, Cosimo. Everything I do, I think of our family first." She forced her way passed his arm, pacing back and forth beside the bed. Air rushed through her ears.
"Have you ever truly loved me, Cosimo?" She didn't know why she asked. "Have you ever woken from your sleep and longed for no one but me? Did you think of me at all while you were in Venice? Did you worry or even wonder about me—alone in this house while the entirety of Florence knew of my disposition? Of my vulnerability?"
"You know how much I value you." The phrase he always said to her.
"I do not want to be valued like some pearl claimed from the sea. I want to know if you have ever truly, even for the smallest of moments, felt any love for me." Contessina knew the word love was not in Cosimo's vocabulary. He'd never been able to say it. She'd accepted this about his years ago but just once she longed for him to say it. Even if it was a fleeting thought. A whisper.
"How could you say that, Contessina? Have I not devoted over twenty years of my life to you? Have I not given you everything you could have desired?" Bafflement filled the man, as though a spoiled child had had their prized possession confiscated for the first time and was unsure of how to react.
"You never allowed me to know you! There has always been a distance between us, Cosimo. I thought after we were married it would fade. I thought after I bore you children you would allow me to know more of you than just your business and insults." They both stood in silence, pacing around each other—dueling.
"You act as though you are the only one married to a stranger. You fail to remember that this marriage was never designed to be built on feelings of passion or trust. We—"
"This marriage has not been built on anything, Cosimo! There is no foundation!" Contessina yelled. Let the whole house hear, she thought. They should know she was standing her ground. "We are ships mooring in the same port. Nothing in common aside from anchors dropped in the same sea. I do not know you and yet there is nothing I have not done for you. I have been loyal to you all these years, just as you commanded of me the first moment I met you. Just as has always been expected of me by your family and mine. Have I not obeyed your every will?" She shook.
"All I've ever asked of you is that you bear my children and allowed me to die. Look what little you have given me in return." A slap blurred Cosimo's vision and his cheek stung. His brows furrowed and fury raptured through him until he recalled the words that he'd spoken. A pit grew in his stomach.
"You should not fear your father's legacy. You've become more your mother than you will ever become of your father."
"I'm sorry, Contessina. I did not mean—" Cosimo's wife turned from him and slowly walked towards the window.
"Leave." Her words were cold and empty.
"Contessina, I—"
"Get out!" she screamed. Though she tried to hide it, Cosimo knew tears streamed down her face. He bound out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Cosimo paced his room. Candles burned brightly but the night seemed darker than it had before. His words echoed in his mind. …bear my children and allow me to die. Look what little you have given me in return.
He was a fool and Contessina was right. His mother had spoken through him. He was more like her than he'd ever wanted to admit.
Look what little you have given me in return.
He held his head. How could he have been so thoughtless? So cruel? His mind forced images of the darkest night he could recall from recent memory to his thoughts and forced him to relive what he longed to stuff away in the recesses of his consciousness.
Plague had found its way to Florence. Smokes filled the streets along with the wails of grief and illness.
"We won't run," Cosimo recalled his father whispering to him and his brother in the dim firelight. "We've run before and proved ourselves able of it. We'll stay and show Florence that money does not grant you the ability to escape God. Only loyalty in one's service to Him grants you that gift."
Lorenzo glanced at his brother but Cosimo gazed forward.
I will become a prisoner in this house.
Plague stayed as long as God willed it, and Giovanni commanded each member of the family to stay in the home until God deemed it fit to leave.
"A prie-dieu in every room," the patriarch commanded the servants. "I want to show we do not excuse ourselves from God's service in any daily task."
Praying kneelers were added to every room, from servants' quarters to the dining room, and Cosimo was pleased when the kneeler added to his bedroom was placed in front of the window. When he was not in prayer he could at least pretend to be while staring out at the misery of the city below.
They'd been sequestered nearly a month. Though no Medici under the roof had contracted the illness, plague clouded the city with fear and sent even the bravest of citizens into secluded corners. With the guarantee of their families being fed from the Medici stores, servants had volunteered to keep posts in the hallways of the house to quickly inform if any member of the family became ill. They sat in chairs like statues, their hands moving in the dim light at needlework or woodworking. With no guests or even news to report at dinner, the Medici home was quiet by nightfall. Only the fires could be seen flickering under the heavy doors.
The night was dark with clouds and within minutes of Cosimo slipping into bed next to his wife, rain became to pour from the sky.
"Does Lorenzo not want to beat you in chess again tonight?" Her voice was muffled by the sound of the rain.
"He declared he'd rather beat his head against the wall or see father naked than play another game of chess." Cosimo smiled, his voice radiating his glee at his brother's declaration. Contessina had become more drawn to conversation with her husband over the last month. He'd not spent every night in their bed, opting to sleep in the study with his drawings some and drunkenly wandering the halls with his brother others. When he did find his way to their bed, though, she'd often ask him his thoughts on literature or philosophy or parables she'd been told as a child. She'd wanted to know him better since their marriage and when the opportunity arose she took it.
Tonight, she was quiet.
Cosimo, not tired enough to allow the silence to urge him to sleep, sat quietly for a few moments. Nestling down further into the bed, he turned on his side to face his wife. She lay on her side with her eyes closed. Her brow softly furrowed.
"Do you ever wonder about the colors of the stars?"
Contessina smiled for a moment.
"Maybe another night, Cosimo," she responded. With a deep intake of breath, she rolled to her other side and pulled her knees slightly towards her body. "I am not well tonight."
Cosimo shot up, moving toward the edge of the bed.
"Is it—"
"No," Contessina quickly assured him. "Merely a bad glass of wine or perhaps I sat near the heat of the fire for too long. It is nothing."
"Should I fetch you some water?" Cosimo felt his wife's face with the back of his hand. No fever.
"No, it is nothing. Please, sleep." With his concern buried by the assurance of his wife, Cosimo buried himself under the blanket and allowed the sound of the rains to lull him to sleep.
Thunder filled the house of the Medici. A bright flash of lightning followed by a loud crack of thunder woke Cosimo. The room was filled with orange flickering light from the fire. A candle had bit lit on the bedside table.
In a sleepy daze, Cosimo turned to check on the state of his ill wife. With eyes closed, he could not find her. Opening his eyes, he saw she was not in the bed they shared. The blankets had been thrown back and where she had been when he fell asleep was a dark stain.
Cosimo had shared a bed with Contessina for nearly a year. He knew of the plight of women. This was not the first nor would it be the last time blood would stain his sheets.
Rolling over to return to his slumber, a faint noise kept him from drifting back to sleep. He couldn't make it out at first. It sounded like wind through the leaves of trees yet they were far from any forest. Sitting up, Cosimo could make out a figure huddled over the praying kneeler by the window.
As lightning lit up the room again, a frightful scene flashed before his eyes. Racing out of bed, he lit another candle and rushed to put another log on the fire. The room flooded with light. In the corner kneeled his wife. A dark stain painted itself across the back of her nightgown; the bottom of her feet dirtied. Her figure keeled forward, heavy breaths heaving in and out. From her hands hung a rosary.
Cosimo made it his intention to not know the business of his wife's womanly plight. He knew, though, something was not right.
As he took steps towards her, he could make out her labored whisperings.
"Please, God. Please, no." Between please she prayed a bead of the rosary in her hands.
"Contessina?" She did not turn to acknowledge her husband. Her sobs grew stronger. The shadow of her shoulders bobbed up and down on the wall.
Cosimo rushed to her side, gripping his wife's shoulders. Taking her hands, holding what he now realized was his rosary, into his, red residue transferred from her hands to his.
"Contessina what is it?"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm sorry." She repeated those words over and over in a hoarse whisper. The man did not understand enough to comprehend what had occurred, but he understood enough.
"Let's get you washed," he said. His tone was more serious than he'd intended. He stood and turned to the basin on the dresser. Behind him, Contessina took crashing breaths between sobs and returned to her prayers.
In the dim light, a map of the night's events lay: the blood on the bed, multiple bloodied rags strewn on the floor, water already poured into the basin, a bloodied handprint on the dresser, the seat of the vanity stool stained with fingerprints, bloodied footprints to the kneeler. Taking the pitcher to pour, Cosimo tilted it to find it empty. Unthinking, he dropped it on the floor. In the corner, Contessina jumped.
"I'm sorry, Cosimo!" she sobbed. "I did not know. I'm sorry."
Cosimo rushed to her side.
"No, Contessina, no, it is not that. I—"
The door to their room opened and a servant rushed in.
"Is there—" When the man realized what he stumbled into all words left him.
"Fetch my mother and some water," Cosimo commanded. The man sprinted out of the room leaving the door open.
"I'm sorry," Contessina said again. Her sobs turned to silent despair. Cosimo did not know what to say. He kissed the woman on the forehead. She was cold and her body wet with tears and sweat and blood.
Cosimo's mother, Piccarda, rushed into the room with fear on her face. Giovanni followed soon behind her. The parents had expected to find their son sick with plague. They were not prepared to have his fate decided by God so soon into his life. They were less prepared for what they found. Cosimo looked at his parents and they stared back at him with mouths agape.
"I'm sorry," Contessina sobbed louder. "I did not know."
Piccarda's often stern, demanding, and disappointed demeanor shifted. She took Giovanni by the hand and the couple walked towards their daughter-in-law.
"Come, child," she said to the woman, kneeling beside her. "These things happen. If it is God's will, we can do nothing but accept it." For the first time, Contessina looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Piccarda held out her hand and Contessina placed her rosary tangled and bloodied hand in it. The servant returned with three pitchers of water and stood just inside the door.
"Let's get you back to bed, my child." Glancing at her son to attend to his wife's other arm, Piccarda and Cosimo beckoned Contessina from the kneeler. The front of her nightgown was stained at the knees.
Giovanni made himself busy by attending to the fire. This was not the place for a father-in-law and yet he could not bring himself to wait outside.
With Contessina on her feet, the room seemed to bring itself into a vacuum. All was quiet, awaiting the actions of the next few moments. Cosimo's wife drew in a rocky, sob-mangled breath. Her legs were weak.
"Cosimo, I—" Contessina looked down. Fresh blood pooled around her feet. She looked at her husband with fear in her face before her eyes fluttered and her body fell into his.
"Wake the cook," Piccarda commanded the servant.
"Should we not call for a doctor?" Giovanni questioned.
"There's no time," Piccarda spat back. "Giovanni, wake Lorenzo and send him for a priest."
Giovanni ran from the room.
"Come, Cosimo," the woman said to her son. He sat on the floor with his wife in his arms. His face was calm, emotionless. "Up, up! Get her onto the bed."
Obeying, Cosimo carried Contessina to the bed and laid her down as gently as he could.
"Mother, I—"
Piccarda stared at him. Alike in strong emotions, Piccarda felt as numb as her son. Too overwhelmed to feel anything.
"Find rags" was all Piccarda said. The duo searched the room for anything that could pass as a rag. They'd barely found a handful when the cook burst in, a shawl wrapped around her and her hair in a tangled braid with a candle burning bright. Giovanni followed behind her.
The woman went to work. Cosimo stepped away and stood near the fire next to his father. He hadn't realized how bloodied his hands had become just as he had forgotten he was in nothing but his sleep shirt.
"She is strong," Giovanni said, putting his arm around his son. Cosimo nodded.
"She did not know," Cosimo responded. Giovanni nodded.
Within minutes Lorenzo, soaking wet with a wildness in his eyes, returned with a priest. The priest nodded to Cosimo and stood by the door.
"Come boys," Giovanni said. "Let us wait outside."
As they exited the room, Cosimo stopped near the priest.
"I found her as she kneeled praying," he said to the man. "Surly her rosary is contrition enough." The priest simply nodded.
In the hall, Cosimo slammed his palm hard against the wall.
"There will be other children, my son." Giovanni meant the words as an encouragement, but his tone fell flat.
"Not if she does not live," Cosimo spat. For the first time, his eyes burned with tears.
"She will, brother." Lorenzo wrapped his brother in his arms.
Time passed. The light of the fire did not fade nor did the darkness of the sky relent to morning. Time passed but the world was still. The men stood in silence in a row like men at the Signoria waiting for a session to come to an end after a boring day.
It was not long until Piccarda opened the door and thanked the priest in the doorway. Behind her, the cook wiped her hands with a clean towel and whispered something to the woman.
"Thank you, Maria." Piccarda gave the cook's shoulder a squeeze and sent the woman back to bed.
The men suddenly stood at attention, leaving their bored old men stances behind and becoming strict as soldiers.
"How is she?" Giovanni asked. Lorenzo found his brother's frame and wrapped his arm around his shoulders like they used to do as boys.
"She is weak," Piccarda answered. "But she will live."
Cosimo let out a hard breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Lorenzo embraced his brother.
"Cosimo," the man's mother said, beckoning him aside.
"Lorenzo, let us go and say a prayer." Giovanni turned and led his son deeper into the dark hall. Cosimo stood close to his mother. They did not embrace.
"Cosimo, your wife is very weak," she started. "There will be children, but you must give her time. Do you understand?" The sternness in her voice was of a flavor Cosimo had not heard in many years.
"Yes, mother."
"You must truly understand, Cosimo," she continued. "It may be many months."
"I understand."
"If you do not, it may cost Contessina her life."
Cosimo nodded again, a stiffness overtook his jaw.
"I've called for a maid to be woken to wash her and change her garments." Piccarda's tone changed. She was no longer stern but instead became quiet and matter-of-fact. Not uncaring, but not soft and loving.
"I'll do it," Cosimo responded. "Let the maid sleep."
He strode back into the room before giving his mother the chance to object.
The room was heavy. The smells of copper mixed with the dampness of the rain pouring from the sky. On the floor sat a pile of bloodied rags in a basket. The brittle weave of the whicker crackled under Cosimo's grip as he took the basket and dumped its contents into the fire, discarding the smallest bit of evidence from the night's events.
"Piccarda?" Contessina whispered, stirring to consciousness. She tried to raise her head off the pile of pillows stacked behind her.
"No, it's me. Cosimo," her husband said, taking long strides to reach her. Kneeling next to the bed, he took her hand in his and kissed it. Dried blood caked her fingernails.
"Cosimo, I'm so sorry," she whispered hoarsely. Tears began to drop from the corner of her eyes as she opened them partly.
"Contessina, don't—"
"I swear, had I known, I would have told you."
"I know, Contessina." Cosimo kissed her hand again.
"I've failed you." She was barely able to keep her eyes open. Her voice dissipated from a whisper to a breath.
"No, Contessina. Don't think that. There will be other children." Cosimo moved to kiss his wife's forehead. She nodded tearfully.
"Be well. Rest." Cosimo's voice broke. Tears fell from his eyes and intermingled with his wife's on the pillow. He leaned down and kissed her softly. Her lips were dry. As though it were magic, Cosimo's kiss lulled Contessina back into her sleep.
She'd always been beautiful—more beautiful than Cosimo would ever tell her—but the woman lying in the bed was not. She was pale and meek. The vivaciousness of the outspoken noblewoman had hidden itself away.
Taking a fresh rag and pouring what was left of the water into the basin, Cosimo began his task. He ran the rag up and down his wife's arms, taking his time to clean the smallest crevice of her hands. He washed her neck and ran the cool rag along her cheeks and down her back. Pulling back the blanket, he started at her feet and worked towards her knees.
Contessina mumbled in her sleep.
"Papa," she muttered from heavy lips. "The blankets. The baby will get cold."
Cosimo froze to listen.
"Mama," she murmured. "The blankets."
Moving beyond the knee, Cosimo lifted his wife's nightgown to find bandages had been fashioned around her. He let out a relieved sigh and made his way to the drawer where fresh nightdresses were kept. Carefully, as to not wake his dreaming wife, he slipped her out of her stained garments. For good measure, he ran the rag over the rest of her body before redressing her. With as much delicacy as he could muster, he slowly lifted her and moved her to his side of the bed.
Waking and lying in the stain of tragedy will do her no good.
For more minutes than he could guess, Cosimo sat and the end of the bed and stared at his wife, fearing that she'd slip away if he left her alone. Hours seemed to go by. Days could have passed, yet Cosimo did not stir.
A quiet knock came at the door and Lorenzo entered with a decanter of wine in one hand and two cups in the other.
"Figured you could use some after tonight," he whispered. Cosimo painstakingly tore himself from the bed and took a cup from his brother, never taking his eyes off his wife.
"Come, we'll take a stroll."
Cosimo paused mid-step.
"No, Lorenzo. I—"
"Mother will have woken all the maids by now. Contessina will not be left alone, I guarantee it."
The two left the room, one more begrudgingly than the other.
They'd taken nearly a lap around the house before either of them spoke.
"Talk to me, Cosimo." Lorenzo's voice echoed through the empty hall. "Contessina is not the only one who has experienced tragedy tonight."
"I did not know." Cosimo shrugged with his answer. "She did not know. There was no sentiment. No attachment. I lost a child before I knew it was there."
"Yes, brother, but you still lost a child." Lorenzo stopped and turned to face his brother.
"I don't know, Lorenzo." Cosimo took the decanter from his brother, poured himself another glass of wine, and strode down the hall back toward his wife.
"Cosimo?" her voice rang out. No response. Contessina's mind was cloudy. The night's events had felt like a nightmare but the pain in her body told her it had been a waking nightmare. She'd woken on the wrong side of the bed and yet she could not gather enough strength to return to her own side. Closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep again.
She awoke again.
"Piccarda?" she whispered.
"Yes, I am here," her mother-in-law answered, running a cool cloth over her face.
"I'm sorry." Though she'd said it a million times throughout the night, no apology seemed enough.
"Stop apologizing," Piccarda responded sternly. "There was nothing that could have been done. Many women, probably most women, lose children before they know they are there. I lost my fair share as did your mother and our mothers before us."
Contessina bit her lip and tried to hold back the tears that burned in her eyes.
"Wives have duties," Piccarda continued, turning to leave. "You failed this time but not by your own doing. There will be more. In the meantime, you must rest and regain your strength."
Contessina nodded, her vision becoming blurry. Through watery sight, she saw Piccarda stop at the foot of the bed.
"Wives have duties but children are not their only purpose. You will soon discover we are the foundation upon which the family thrives. I will speak with Giovanni."
With that, Contessina drifted back to sleep.
She awoke again.
"Cosimo?"
"No, my child," Giovanni said from the fireside. "It is Giovanni."
"Oh," Contessina muttered.
"You have endured much tonight," he started, jumbling over his words like new kittens at play. "I simply want to assure you that your place in the family has not been altered."
His phrasing was odd. The man who spoke in contracts and negotiations was not well prepared for comforting on such a delicate matter.
"In fact," he continued. "I think you could do a great deal more for our family." He paused, rubbing his chin, and then walked to the bed with an informality Contessina had not seen from him.
"Piccarda lost…we lost four before Lorenzo's birth," he said softly. Contessina did not know how to react. She was still on the brink of sleep and yet she suddenly did not feel tired. "God works in ways we do not understand. Nonetheless, you are needed here."
Contessina nodded. Suddenly, Giovanni leaned down and kissed her forehead and then took her hand in his and kissed it.
"I will speak to Cosimo." With that statement, he left the room. Contessina was not sure she heard him right but did not bother to consider her father-in-law's statements more. She drifted back to sleep again.
He saw his father enter the room as he strode down the hall. Unsure of what his purpose was, Cosimo waited outside. He heard muffled speech, his father's mostly, and stood as near to the door as he dare.
When his father finally exited the room, Giovanni did not seem surprised to find Cosimo where he did.
"Your mother and I have decided Contessina should have control of the mills. Give them to her when she is strong enough to understand."
"Father—"
"It is decided, Cosimo." Giovanni disappeared down the hall.
Cosimo sat at the foot of the bed, he paced around the room, he prayed as the sun came up, he wiped the blood from the dresser and vanity stool. He allowed his knees to sit in the blood on the praying kneeler until he'd spoken his peace with God and then cleaned it the best he could.
As daylight began to light up the room a maid came in with fresh sheets. Carefully, Cosimo lifted his wife's body off the bed as the maid changed the sheets quickly. Contessina moaned.
"Papa?" she muttered. Cosimo held his breath. The woman in his arms did not wake, though.
The maid quickly left with the dirtied sheets and Cosimo laid down on his wife's side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He longed to lie close to her, holding her form in his. He did not want to wake her, though, so he allowed her hands to stay wrapped across her body as they'd settled when he placed her on the clean sheets; he kept his by his side.
He'd nearly drifted to sleep when he was awoken by a cold hand grasping his. His eyes shot open. Turning his head towards his wife, he saw her awake and staring at the ceiling. They were silent.
As the day grew brighter the halls grew noisier.
"Let them be, Lorenzo," Giovanni said outside their doors.
The couple was frozen with hands intertwined. Their eyes were open, but they slept in their minds.
Finally, Contessina broke the silence.
"Cosimo?" she whispered.
"Yes?"
"Is there water?"
Softly, Cosimo left the bed and poured water into his empty wine glass. Contessina drank deeply.
"You look awful," she said, a smirk spreading across her face. Cosimo laughed. He stood there, a smile on his face and greasy hair sticking to his ears, staring at his wife until the smile faded. They stared at each other knowing there was much to say but not knowing where or how to start. Cosimo returned to his place in their bed. They sat in silence, but their thoughts raced.
Finally, Cosimo could bear the weight of the air no longer.
"Contessina," he said.
"Cosimo," she responded, her voice still full of sleep though she was awake.
"Contessina, I am sorry." Cosimo turned to face his wife. Hot tears fell quietly down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he said again. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm.
"I'm sorry." He moved his body closer to hers and kissed her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he said as he kissed her forehead.
"I'm sorry," he whispered between kissing her cheeks, her tears wetting his lips.
"I'm sorry," he said one last time as he kissed her softly on the lips. He gazed at her, his face close to his, and brushed the tears from her cheeks as they fell. His eyes burned.
"I thought I'd lost you." His voice lost its power as he finally began to feel the emotions he'd been numb to. Tears escaped his eyes; his face became hot. He laid his head down next to his wife and the couple cried together, wiping the tears from each other's faces.
"Promise me you'll stay," he said to her. "Promise me you will not leave me."
"I promise," she responded.
"There will be others…children," he whispered, kissing her shoulder once more.
"Yes." Hesitance forced space between the couple.
"Not until you are ready," Cosimo reassured her, brushing hair out of her face.
A long pause commenced. Cosimo assumed his wife had been overcome by fatigue, but she held fast to his hand. He intermittently ran his hand down her arm and over her fingers, kissing her shoulder almost instinctually. In his heart, Cosimo wished he could love his wife deeper than he did.
Nearly an hour had passed and the sun had long been in the sky. A maid had brought a tray with broth and bread but neither ate.
"Cosimo," Contessina whispered.
"I'm here," he replied.
"Will you hold me?" She asked as though she were a child who knew she was too big to be held by her father but asked simply for the comfort of memories gone by. "Just for a while."
He did not answer. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her and with the other raised her up so that he could slip his shoulder under her frame. She winced but swift as the pain came it seemed to disappear. He held her until she fell asleep and long after.
Time marched on, though, and, by mid-afternoon, he was needed at the bank.
Look what little you've given me... He banged his fist into his forehead.