Playing by Heart Read online

  Table of Contents

  Advance Praise for Playing by Heart

  Other Books by Carmela Martino

  Copyright

  First Movement: December 1736 - January 1737

  Chapter One: Iron Bars

  Chapter Two: The Challenge

  Chapter Three: Summons

  Chapter Four: Palazzo Riccardi

  Chapter Five: Governor von Traun

  Chapter Six: Musica Lieta

  Chapter Seven: Prodigy

  Chapter Eight: Quivering Flames

  Second Movement: February 1737 - October 1737

  Chapter Nine: Cerulean Madonna

  Chapter Ten: New Lessons

  Chapter Eleven: A Fellow Student

  Chapter Twelve: Viola d’Amore

  Chapter Thirteen: Change in Season

  Chapter Fourteen: Chantilly Lace

  Chapter Fifteen: Adriana Grilli

  Third Movement: January 1738 - July 1739

  Chapter Sixteen: Charms

  Chapter Seventeen: Father’s Meeting

  Chapter Eighteen: Colors of the Rainbow

  Chapter Nineteen: Godsend

  Chapter Twenty: Playthings

  Chapter Twenty-One: Puppets on a String

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Country Air

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Royal Ducal Theatre

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Cupid’s Arrows

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Bellini’s Portfolio

  Chapter Twenty-Six: A Healing Balm

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Gabriella’s Sitting Room

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Masquerade Ball

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Nivola

  Chapter Thirty: The Archduchess

  Chapter Thirty-One: Montevecchian Wine

  Chapter Thirty-Two: New Furnishings

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Il Malocchio

  Chapter Thirty-Four: True Character

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Ticking Clock

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Bubbling Fountain

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Two Squirrels

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Final Meeting

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Farewell

  Chapter Forty: News of Great Import

  Chapter Forty-One: Butterfly Wings

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  To the Reader

  Plan Your Next Escape! What’s Your Reading Pleasure?

  Advance Praise for Playing by Heart

  “Martino explores the gilded passageways of Hapsburg-era Milan's white aristocracy with technically accomplished descriptions of privilege, luxury, and teenage longing.” ~ Kirkus Reviews

  “I read this novel in a single sitting! The story of sisters Emilia and Maria Salvini is riveting, rich, and like a lovely piece of music, impossible to forget.” ~ Louise Hawes, author of The Language of Stars and The Vanishing Point and founding faculty member of the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA Program in Writing for Children and Young Adults

  “A virtuoso performance by Carmela Martino. You’ll love Emilia Salvini in her impossible quest to be herself at a time and place when girls had no choices.” ~ Mary Jane Beaufrand, author of Primavera and Useless Bay

  “In Playing by Heart, Carmela Martino transports readers to the palazzos and salons of eighteenth-century Italy, revealing from one sublimely crafted and evocatively detailed page to the next the lives of two passionate and inspiring sisters—women who are both far ahead of their time and absolutely believable, and who, thanks to Martino’s rich characterization, linger in the mind as dear friends might, long after this beautiful, compelling, and ultimately hopeful novel draws to its rewarding end.” ~ Karen Halvorsen Schreck, author of Broken Ground and Sing for Me

  “Playing by Heart is as lyrical as the gifted musicians that inhabit its pages. Carmela Martino, in an impeccably-written story, captures both the grace and refinement of 18th-century Italy and the timeless dilemmas to which the modern reader can relate—the pressure of familial expectations and obligations, living in the shadow of a sibling, the desire to direct one’s own destiny, and love tested by time, distance, parental resistance, and class.” ~ Carolyn Astfalk, author of Ornamental Graces and Rightfully Ours

  “Strong, intelligent female characters and meticulously researched detail drew me into this novel of 18th-century Italy. Intrigue, music, and love are all ingredients in this tale of upper-class teen girls seeking to steer their adult lives. This is an Italian tapestry come to life.” ~ Mary Ann Rodman, author of Yankee Girl and Jimmy’s Stars

  “A beautifully composed tale of love, faith, and family! Playing by Heart is sure to win the affection of its readers.” ~ A. J. Cattapan, award-winning author of Angelhood and 7 Riddles to Nowhere

  “Playing by Heart is a lyrical story that captures the reader from the first page. The words literally sing. Authentic, strong character voice, rich and detailed historical setting, and an intriguing plot all come together to create a can’t-put-it-down book. The story provides a look into the fascinating world of 18th-century Italy in a way that no history book ever could. The fact that it is based on the lives of extraordinary real women who were quite ahead of their time makes it a must-read addition for school libraries everywhere. Carmela Martino’s writing style blends the historical facts with the emotional family life details in a way that creates a dramatic, beautifully written novel that will capture the hearts of readers of all ages.” ~ Roxanne F. Owens, PhD, Chair, Teacher Education, DePaul University

  “[Martino’s] brought history alive through masterful storytelling. Her teenage Sisters Salvini breathe on every page. You experience their joys and pains as they make their ways in a restrictive society that won’t understand or appreciate their extraordinary talents. You cheer them on as they confront their own, internal limitations with a growing maturity, mind, and yes, heart. Indeed, Playing by Heart achieves what we look for in good historical fiction: Teach us something about today through yesterday—and entertain us in the process.” ~ Marie Ann Donovan, EdD, Associate Professor of Teacher Education, DePaul University

  “This beautiful story takes place over 200 years ago, yet its lessons are timeless. Emilia and Maria have so much to teach us about balancing one’s calling, one’s gifts, and what brings one joy. Both young women navigate these decisions with grace, beauty, determination, and compassion. And, in our current age where instant gratification seems to be expected, Carmela Martino gives us the gift of watching true love blossom slowly.” ~ Peggy Goralski, Director, Middle School Faith Formation, St. Thomas the Apostle Parish

  “Set in 18th-century Milan, Playing by Heart is a symphony of romance and faith with an undercurrent of social commentary. Carmela Martino’s novel for teen readers explores family ties, vocations, and discernment of the best ways to use God-given gifts. Cue up some Vivaldi or Pachelbel and settle in for an intriguing tale.” ~ Barb Szyszkiewicz, writer at Today’s Catholic Teacher magazine and Editor at CatholicMom.com

  “Carmela Martino has created a historical heroine contemporary readers can relate to. The fact that Martino was able to do this while immersing the reader in Milan in the eighteenth century is astounding. Little tidbits of detail reveal the extensive research that must have gone into the writing. A glossary aides in understanding this remarkable time and place.” ~ Gayl Smith, MLS, Retired K-12 Teacher/Librarian

  “This is a heartfelt romance, very much a period piece but it would resonate with women in our day. It documents the struggles of any gifted woman trying to overcome gender bias. The relationships between the sisters and their eventual fates is quite captivating as they unfold. And it tells a tale of love, which is complicated by the age in which Emilia and Bellini lived, but love stories are time
less.” ~ Dorothy Strening, Retired Parish Liturgy/Music Director

  Other Books by Carmela Martino

  Rosa, Sola

  For John, who makes my heart sing

  Playing by Heart

  Carmela Martino

  Vinspire Publishing

  www.vinspirepublishing.com

  Copyright ©2017 Carmela Martino

  Cover illustration copyright © 2017 Elaina Lee/For the Muse Designs

  Formatted by Woven Red Author Services, www.WovenRed.ca

  First Edition

  Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vinspire Publishing, LLC, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

  All characters in this work are purely fictional and have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ISBN print book: 978-1546799450

  Published by Vinspire Publishing, LLC

  First Movement: December 1736 - January 1737

  Chapter One: Iron Bars

  The day I decided to take my fate into my own hands began much like any other. As soon as I was dressed, I headed to the harpsichord salon to practice. The maestro had finally returned from Venice and would arrive shortly. I was anxious to show him how much I’d learned in his absence. But when I turned the corner near Mamma’s sitting room, a clash of angry voices stopped me. Mamma was arguing with Father, something she never did. And something she shouldn’t be doing now, as she was heavy with child.

  I tiptoed to the sitting room door. With one hand on the wall, I leaned close. The edges of the decorative plasterwork dug into my fingers as Mamma said, “Did Maria request this herself?”

  My hand relaxed. They weren’t arguing about me. But knowing my sister’s fate was intertwined with mine, I pressed forward again.

  “No,” Father replied. “It was my decision, one I would have carried out long ago if not for the Sardinian occupation. It’s time she had a tutor who specializes in mathematics, one who can nurture her natural aptitude for the subject. He will teach her astronomy as well.”

  “Astronomy!” Mamma screeched. “Maria already spends too much time with books. Haven’t you noticed her pallor? The throat illness took a greater toll on her than the other girls.”

  I pictured Mamma seated in the high-backed armchair near the window, her legs resting atop the footstool cushion she herself had embroidered. No doubt her normally calm blue-gray eyes flashed steely as she said, “Maria needs fresh air and physical activity, not more studies.”

  “Very well,” Father said. “We will increase the frequency of her dance lessons. And I will order her to keep a window open in her study at all times. Come spring, I’ll have her tutors move her lessons to the garden.”

  “They will simply stuff her head with more book learning,” Mamma said. “What of her real education, the one she would have received at convent school? Maria should be cultivating practical skills, such as sewing and embroidery, and how to manage a home—skills she will need to be a useful wife and mother.”

  “There will be time enough for that,” Father said. “She is young.”

  “Young? Perhaps her quiet manner has led you to forget that your eldest daughter is fourteen! Instead of hiring more tutors, you should be making arrangements for her future. For her betrothal, and Emilia’s, too.”

  My betrothal! I clasped my hands to my bodice. It was the subject I’d both longed for and feared, especially since seeing Zia Delia last week.

  At thirteen, I’d never heard either of my parents speak of my betrothal before. But that hadn’t kept me from painting a portrait of my future husband in my mind.

  He’d be as tall as Father, if not taller, with mysterious dark brown eyes. And even more important, he’d love music as I did and encourage my meager talent.

  I turned my ear to the wall so as not to miss a word.

  “Though, I dare say,” Mamma went on, “given Maria’s religious devotion, she’d be happier as a nun.”

  “Don’t even suggest such a thing!” Father’s voice crescendoed. “I will not have her extraordinary talents hidden away in a convent.”

  A chair scraped. Father must have stood up. “Do not concern yourself about our daughters’ futures, Woman. That is my responsibility. I assure you I will do what is best for them and for the family.”

  Father’s staccato footsteps approached. I gathered my skirts and hurried away on tiptoe.

  When I was out of earshot, I let my heels drop and continued down the drafty corridor to the harpsichord salon. Father’s words echoed in my mind. He’d promised to do what was best for his daughters and for the family.

  Of the seven children in our family, four were girls, with perhaps another on the way. It would be burdensome—if not impossible—to provide marriage dowries for that many daughters. At least two of us would end up nuns, whether we had a calling or not. Such had been the fate of Zia Delia, Mamma’s youngest sister.

  In my mind, I saw again the long, narrow convent parlor where Mamma and I had visited Zia Delia last week. The parlor was separated from the nuns’ quarters by two large windows. Iron bars covered the window openings, crisscrossing the space where glass should be. A linen drape hung over the bars on the nuns’ side.

  When we’d arrived that day, Mamma had eased herself into a wicker chair facing the first window, directly across from Zia Delia. We couldn’t actually see my aunt, only her shadow on the drape. I had stood with my hand on the back of Mamma’s chair as she’d tried to make conversation. The other nuns talked and laughed with their visitors. Zia Delia said nothing.

  Mamma began describing Father’s recent name-day celebration to Zia. “After the meal, we adjourned to the harpsichord salon. There, we listened to Maria recite two epic Greek poems she’d translated herself. Carlo said it was the best present she could have bestowed upon him.” Mamma gave an exasperated sigh. “Really, he praises that girl too much! If heaven hadn’t blessed Maria with such a humble nature, she’d be unbearably prideful by now.” Mamma shook her head. “Afterward, Emilia gave a spectacular performance on the harpsichord, but Carlo barely thanked her.”

  So Mamma had noticed, too.

  As I recalled Father’s disappointment, the room started to spin. I gripped the wicker chair tighter and breathed in deeply until my bodice stays dug into my ribs.

  “Carlo’s behavior was terribly rude,” Mamma went on, “especially compared to Count Riccardi’s impeccable manners. He praised Emilia profusely, saying how he’d never heard anyone her age play so beautifully, boy or girl.”

  I took another deep breath. Mamma didn’t understand. The count was just being polite.

  Zia Delia’s shadow shifted. “What did you play, Emilia?”

  Surprised by her question, I released my grip on the chair. “Three of Scarlatti’s sonatas and Rameau’s Suite in A Minor.”

  Zia bowed her head. “Secular music is strictly forbidden within these walls.” Her voice held both sorrow and longing.

  How could such beautiful music be forbidden? I shivered at the thought.

  I stepped forward and pressed my hand against the iron grille. On the opposite side, Zia stood and raised her hand to mine. She pressed hard, as though she could make our fingers touch through the linen drape. But I felt only the cold iron bars.

  Zia whispered, “Don’t let them do this to you.” Her shadow gestured behind her, toward the nuns’ quarters. “Don’t let them lock you away from the music.”

  I shivered again the
n shook my head. Father would never do that to me.

  Now, as I neared the harpsichord salon, I wasn’t so sure. Especially not after what I’d just overheard. Or rather, what I hadn’t overheard.

  When Mamma had mentioned arranging for Maria’s betrothal and mine, Father had said nothing of me. He’d spoken only of Maria. A spark of envy flared in my chest. Heaven forgive me, I prayed silently as I took a quick breath to extinguish the flame. Even if envy wasn’t a sin, I owed Maria too much to blame her for Father’s favoritism.

  I pushed my thoughts aside. Time was running short. I had to prepare for my lesson—my first with the maestro in nearly three years.

  Not long after the Sardinian invasion, Maestro Tomassini had accepted a temporary assignment in Venice. The maestro was a stern taskmaster, but I’d sorely missed his instruction. His return made me grateful Milan was again under Hapsburg rule. I’d be doubly grateful if the maestro’s time away had somehow softened his disposition.

  I hurried into the harpsichord salon. Paintings of various sizes covered the walls here as in the other rooms. Most depicted scenes from the Bible, though there were also a few landscapes, seascapes, and still lifes. But this room held a work of art not found elsewhere in our palazzo—a harpsichord.

  This morning, sunlight from the window fell directly on the harpsichord’s open lid, illuminating the painting there of a small white ship sailing across a blue-green sea. The waves carved onto the harpsichord’s side panels continued the nautical theme, as did the lovely mermaid figures hugging the base of each of the three legs.

  Naldo, our manservant, must have been here already, for fires burned brightly in both hearths, chasing away the December chill. I sat down and began as I always did, by pressing the high-C key. As the note rang out, it merged with the sensation of the quill plucking the string to send a quiver of delight through me. I loved both the sound and the feel of the instrument.

  Instead of starting with one of my usual practice pieces, I played the opening allemande of Rameau’s Suite in A Minor. I’d hoped the challenging opening would distract me from the dark thoughts hovering at the back of my mind. But playing Rameau only reminded me of Zia’s words, “Don’t let them lock you away from the music.” Which would be worse, to be deprived of music or of love?