this girl might actually come right off the page!”
“More than that, she makes me want to weep,” Margherita said with uncharacteristic emotion quaking in her voice. “She knows what the future holds for her child. You can see it in her gaze, the sadness . . . She wishes to keep him for as long as she possibly can.” Margherita looked up. There were tears in her sister’s eyes. Their father, too, was stunned.
“If what Donato showed you this morning did not sway you, this certainly must,” Francesco determined. “It is a chance at immortality through
Mastro
Raffaello’s paintbrush. God Almighty put you in his path, and you must not turn from that. You must go to him, you must tell him, Margherita, that you have changed your mind!”
“
S.
Of course you are right.”
“Take Donato if you like,” Letitia offered as she laid the now dozing toddler into the wooden cradle beside the table. “It would be wise to have a chaperone in any case. A girl alone going to an artist’s studio, no matter what the reason, will not help your reputation. Everyone there must see you as a serious portrait model, not one of those girls who models for artists without their clothing.”
“Then we are in agreement,” Francesco announced after another long swallow of the wine, which dribbled down onto his stubbled chin. An ambitious glitter lit his tired eyes. “As soon as Donato returns from his work at the stables he will accompany you to see
Mastro
Raphael. You will thank him for showing you the sketch, return it, and then you will tell him that you have changed your mind.”
S HE STOOD before him at the opened, heavy workshop door, holding out the rolled sketch, her arms draped in the sleeves of an unadorned pale-blue dress, once her mother’s best dress, with its slight touch of faded elegance—her feet beneath covered in scuffed strap shoes. Her hair was parted in the center, and the smooth length of it was held by a small blue cap, her mother’s also, ornamented with just a few simple beads. Donato stood beside her in modest attire—burgundy hose, tunic, painted leather belt, and white shirt beneath. This was his finest attire as well.
“Signor Sanzio,” Donato bowed deeply. “It is indeed the greatest of honors. I am Donato Perazzi, husband of Margherita’s sister.”
“A pleasure,” said Raphael with a nod, but his eyes were instantly upon Margherita as the artists behind him fell into a sudden hush.
“I have come to return this,” she said evenly, her deep brown eyes flecked with gold, wide and honest. She was dressed plainly, he saw, but Raphael, who had been called over by one of the apprentices as she stood at the workshop door, saw the dignity in the utter simplicity of what she wore.
“The drawing was for you.”
“But your work, the perfection of it, is something you must not—”
“It was only a study for an earlier Madonna. It was my hope to show you what caliber of painting I hoped you would sit for.”
“That was my thought upon seeing it. The caliber of your work.” The smallest tinge of a smile edged up the corners of her mouth.
“Signorina, I have waited nearly two years to fulfill this commission. I have painted many Madonnas before, so many for churches and chapels that now I can scarcely remember them all. But with this one, something has stopped me. I could not commit to an image, a face for her—that is, until the day I met you.” He lowered his gaze. “Signorina Luti, honestly, I would have done anything to convince you.”
“I believe you have done that.”
“Thanks be to God,” Donato quietly murmured, glancing heavenward.
But Raphael was silent, seeing only her—her direct manner and her simplicity.
“As long as you have come all this way,” he said suddenly, conscious of his manners.“Would you and Signor Perazzi like to have a look around?”
He knew it would be obvious that he was trying to impress her with a tour of his grand
“More than that, she makes me want to weep,” Margherita said with uncharacteristic emotion quaking in her voice. “She knows what the future holds for her child. You can see it in her gaze, the sadness . . . She wishes to keep him for as long as she possibly can.” Margherita looked up. There were tears in her sister’s eyes. Their father, too, was stunned.
“If what Donato showed you this morning did not sway you, this certainly must,” Francesco determined. “It is a chance at immortality through
Mastro
Raffaello’s paintbrush. God Almighty put you in his path, and you must not turn from that. You must go to him, you must tell him, Margherita, that you have changed your mind!”
“
S.
Of course you are right.”
“Take Donato if you like,” Letitia offered as she laid the now dozing toddler into the wooden cradle beside the table. “It would be wise to have a chaperone in any case. A girl alone going to an artist’s studio, no matter what the reason, will not help your reputation. Everyone there must see you as a serious portrait model, not one of those girls who models for artists without their clothing.”
“Then we are in agreement,” Francesco announced after another long swallow of the wine, which dribbled down onto his stubbled chin. An ambitious glitter lit his tired eyes. “As soon as Donato returns from his work at the stables he will accompany you to see
Mastro
Raphael. You will thank him for showing you the sketch, return it, and then you will tell him that you have changed your mind.”
S HE STOOD before him at the opened, heavy workshop door, holding out the rolled sketch, her arms draped in the sleeves of an unadorned pale-blue dress, once her mother’s best dress, with its slight touch of faded elegance—her feet beneath covered in scuffed strap shoes. Her hair was parted in the center, and the smooth length of it was held by a small blue cap, her mother’s also, ornamented with just a few simple beads. Donato stood beside her in modest attire—burgundy hose, tunic, painted leather belt, and white shirt beneath. This was his finest attire as well.
“Signor Sanzio,” Donato bowed deeply. “It is indeed the greatest of honors. I am Donato Perazzi, husband of Margherita’s sister.”
“A pleasure,” said Raphael with a nod, but his eyes were instantly upon Margherita as the artists behind him fell into a sudden hush.
“I have come to return this,” she said evenly, her deep brown eyes flecked with gold, wide and honest. She was dressed plainly, he saw, but Raphael, who had been called over by one of the apprentices as she stood at the workshop door, saw the dignity in the utter simplicity of what she wore.
“The drawing was for you.”
“But your work, the perfection of it, is something you must not—”
“It was only a study for an earlier Madonna. It was my hope to show you what caliber of painting I hoped you would sit for.”
“That was my thought upon seeing it. The caliber of your work.” The smallest tinge of a smile edged up the corners of her mouth.
“Signorina, I have waited nearly two years to fulfill this commission. I have painted many Madonnas before, so many for churches and chapels that now I can scarcely remember them all. But with this one, something has stopped me. I could not commit to an image, a face for her—that is, until the day I met you.” He lowered his gaze. “Signorina Luti, honestly, I would have done anything to convince you.”
“I believe you have done that.”
“Thanks be to God,” Donato quietly murmured, glancing heavenward.
But Raphael was silent, seeing only her—her direct manner and her simplicity.
“As long as you have come all this way,” he said suddenly, conscious of his manners.“Would you and Signor Perazzi like to have a look around?”
He knew it would be obvious that he was trying to impress her with a tour of his grand
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