Prologue
Elisa
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
Except this isn’t Hertfordshire, and it’s not 1812. This is Belvedere, in Chianti, a small village of about thirty-two hundred inhabitants between the provinces of Florence and Siena. And it’s the twenty-first century.
At least that’s what the calendar says, though certain conversations might suggest otherwise.
Take the one unfolding now, at the bakery—swarming with housewives like every morning. It’s a conversation in which Elisa Benetti finds herself engaged entirely against her will.
“When is he coming?” Fiorella asks Giliola.
“How old is he?” adds Viola.
“I must immediately tell him about my Sara!” exclaims Angela, as she rushes toward the exit, nearly trampling Mamma and me. “Sorry! Didn’t see you there.”
“Morning, Pietro. The usual two loaves, please,” Mamma says to the baker, who attends to her, clearly amused by the chatter. “So who’scoming? The new parish priest?” She’s as bad as the others when it comes to procuring the latest gossip.
For a little village where nothing ever happens, even a new parish priest has people buzzing for days.
“A parish priest? After Caterina’s niece put an end to the last one, the diocese won’t send anyone under fifty. The next man who heads up the parish will need a nurse rather than a housekeeper.”
In Belvedere, no celibate man is safe, not even a man of the cloth. Here, with just a handful of bachelors under retirement age, nothing is sacred: Mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and daughters are all equipped with a precision radar capable of detecting a potential husband from miles away. Mamma is no exception.
Don Marzio, fresh out of the seminary, lasted all of four months before Caterina’s niece Greta cooked him up in a brief courtship to the tune of homemade pappardelle with wild boar and then proceeded to marry him.
“This person must be important,” Mamma presses, her curiosity piqued. This is what I get for volunteering to cart home her groceries on my Vespa.
“What?” Viola spits. “You of all people don’t know? Gianni Vanucci, the notary, just went to see Ricasoli’s nephew. He’s inheriting his uncle’s estate!”
Oh. That’s why they think we would know: We live and work on the estate in question, Le Giuggiole. Count Umberto Ricasoli died a month ago, a heart attack relieving him of his arduous life of leisure at all of fifty-six, and we’ve been awaiting directives from the heirs, who are as yet unknown.
“I didn’t know a thing about it,” says Mamma, annoyed. “It went from the Ricasolis of Poggio a Caiano?”
Count Umberto didn’t have children, so Gianni had to track down his next of kin. There are loads of Ricasoli-Guicciardis in Tuscany; with regard to selecting an heir, there’d be no shortage of candidates.
“My cousin lives in Poggio and didn’t say a word. Maybe it went to the ones in Pontassieve,” says Giliola.
“There are a few Ricasolis in Pisa too,” says Fiorella.
“I’d rather have a corpse in my house than a Pisan at my door!” announces the pharmacist, parking his bike on the sidewalk and stepping inside. “Good morning, ladies! What are you all going on about? Who is this nitwit from Pisa?”
“Ricasoli’s nephew is inheriting Le Giuggiole, if they can figure out which one he is.” Pietro explains.
“What does that have to do with Pisa?” Duccio says. “I know who it is: Gianni’s neighbor Fernanda told me when she was in buying a balm for her calluses.”
If anyone would know, it would be Duccio. Everyone talks to the pharmacist about everything. Absolutely everything.
“Who is it? Who is it?” squeal the ravenous mothers in chorus.
Duccio, pleased at the attention, puffs out his chest under his white coat. “It’s old Lanfranco Ricasoli’s great-nephew—the one in London.” Lanfranco was Umberto’s father and the prior owner of the estate. “The son of his niece Elena.”
Duccio’s announcement catches me so off guard I take a step back. “You mean Carletto?” In reality his name is Charles. His mother, Elena Ricasoli, married an English cloth merchant, Richard Bingley, and Charles and his twin sister used to spend summers at their great-uncle’s estate.
“That’s the one,” Duccio confirms. “Gianni caught a flight out of Florence last night.”
I’m about to reach for the bread, when I’m assailed by the band of sprightly housewives of Chianti.
