francescadelbzzi:
Dark eyes shot up from the parchment she held in her slender hands to study the man before them. Fingertips caressing the red seal that had once secured the writers words, before it had fallen into her hands. Often she pretended it to be letter from other ladies when anyone dare ask, pouring their hearts out about the latest gossip in Northern Italy, for a woman was rarely deemed fit to get herself involved in tax laws or shipments. She was to be a decoration in fine silk at her husband’s side, and a pawn in the play of great man in the time of negotiations. A pawn in a play of gentlemen, the street of Florence its board.
Gently, her left hand caressed the top of her husband’s hand that clamped on to his chair for dear life. Exerting the virtue of patience with great care, as he suffered to the endless amount of men who demanded audience. “I believe he seeks what they all seek, dear husband. An investor.” she spoke close to his ear, her tone private and just loud enough to speak the words for his ears only.
‘ - HE DIDN’T nod in assent to her words, as that had long ceased from being necessary. Acknowledgement was only duly given to those who might doubt they’ve been heard - and as far as him and his wife were concerned, listening was something fundamental, axiomatic. The ruler brought his fingers into a steeple. His address towards to petitioner was tainted by skepticism, but not in enough nuances to make it entirely discouraging. Doubt and something else, something sharper, entertained his expression. “And what made you think the Albizzi would sponsor new endeavors? I thought our neighbors across the square held monopoly on that. Come to me in a fortnight, if nothing better had been dangled before you.”
The dismissive flick of the hand followed, the typical stance which surprised no one. Three quarters from his open-ended meetings ended in the same curt discharge. And when the petitioners came on days such as these, where doors were propped apart, free for everyone to enter and bring his cause to the conteggio, the flippancy was even more brutal. Rinaldi inched closer to his wife. Their shoulders brushed together as she took her seat near him, muslin against organdy, delicate blades shaded by rugged muscle. “So seek they may. The Medici will have him - they squander their money like lavandera girls their--”. The sentence was brusquely cut off. His head bowed forth for the briefest of moments. “I apologize, my dear. It was a much too vulgar line of thought.”













