“You are hard on yourself. You have also been managing an onslaught of fever. We are grateful to you for your dedication.”
“I would do it better if I had my assistant back.”
“I am sure. And I would be the first to send her to you if the demand from the choir mistress was not so great.”
“Does it take so long to learn a few psalm settings? She has an excellent memory.”
“You are very forthright today,” the abbess says mildly. “Would you like to sit down? Or take a small refreshment of wine, perhaps?” She gestures to a decanter that sits on the table, its ruby color lit up by the firelight. “It is from the duke’s own vineyard.”
“No. Thank you.” Zuana bows her head. “I am sorry for my open tongue, Madonna Abbess. My mind is somewhat beset by problems.”
“I am sure it is. And let me assure you if it were only Carnival I would give the novice back to you now, for you did a wondrous job with her.” She pours herself a glass, then holds it up before taking a sip, as if raising it in Zuana’s praise. “But as you know, after Carnival comes Lent and then Easter. We will have full churches for quite a while and Suora Benedicta is up all night scribbling.” She pauses. “Sometimes I wonder if God has somehow singled Santa Caterina out—unworthy as we are—for special responsibilities: Suora Scholastica with her writings, Suora Benedicta with her passion for music, you with your pursuit of dispensary knowledge.”
It is a subtle reminder—which Zuana does not fail to register—that not every convent offers such freedoms. But while the words are humble they are also fat with pride. How could they not be? Following Saint Agnes’s Vespers her chambers have been filled with visitors: relatives come to share the triumph (any accomplishment of the convent is also a success for the family that runs it), benefactors from the court, representation from the bishop, even a wealthy father from Bologna who had been visiting friends and is thinking of where he might place his second daughter—a young girl whose voice, he assures her, is as sweet as her disposition. Then the letters start arriving, from other abbesses and more notably from her own brother in Rome, secretary to Cardinal Luigi d’Este, rich with church gossip and congratulations to his little sister for keeping such a wondrous songbird in hiding until the perfect moment for her debut. In this way, Santa Caterina has stolen a march on all the other convents around. With each appearance at Vespers the story grows. For a city that prides itself on its musical sophistication, the talk now is more of the simple wonder of God’s instrument than of the novelty of men with no balls. And through all this, Madonna Chiara must keep her feet on the ground, though she must surely be allowed a little pleasure.
“While I appreciate your plight—and will, as soon as I can, find you another conversa to help with your nursing—my first duty must be to the interests of the convent. I cannot allow the novice to risk infection or wear herself out with other work as well as all the extra hours in the choir room.”
“And the interests of the convent are also the interests of the novice herself?”
Zuana intends this as a statement, though the question is there for both of them to hear. She surprises herself with her own forthrightness.
“Ah! I am indeed a blessed abbess. It seems, as well as our great bishop to watch over me, I have been given two other consciences to supervise my decisions. No less figures than the dispensary and the novice mistresses.” While her tone is amused it does not preclude a certain tartness. “I think, Suora Zuana, it might be better if you sat down after all. Please.”
Zuana does as she is ordered.
The abbess pours another glass of wine and hands it to her.
“It was sent explicitly for all the choir nuns of Santa Caterina, with the duke’s compliments. You may drink less of it at dinner if you feel unfairly honored now.”
Zuana puts it to her lips. There is a flavor of rich berry underneath its smooth surface. How strange, she thinks, that it has taken the life of a nun to teach her such secrets of the grape; but then her father’s knowledge of wine was more about the remedies he mixed within it than the pleasure to be savored in its own right.
“So. I wonder if your fears for the novice are the same as Suora Umiliana’s. Is it the effects of pride on such a vulnerable young soul? Or perhaps the lack of time for proper prayer and instruction now that her choir duties are so demanding? Suora Umiliana is exercised by both. Though it is possible that neither of you appreciates the discipline that comes from using one’s voice in chapel to sing the praises of the Lord. As our great Saint Augustine said, ‘To sing is to pray twice.’ ”
