{"product_id":"the-ruby-ring-isbn-9781400051731","title":"The Ruby Ring","description":"From critically acclaimed historical novelist Diane Haeger comes \u003ci\u003eThe Ruby Ring\u003c\/i\u003e, an unforgettable story of love, loss, and immortal genius . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRome, 1520. The Eternal City is in mourning. Raphael Sanzio, beloved painter and national hero, has died suddenly at the height of his fame. His body lies in state at the splendid marble Pantheon. At the nearby convent of Sant’Apollonia, a young woman comes to the Mother Superior, seeking refuge. She is Margherita Luti, a baker’s daughter from a humble neighborhood on the Tiber, now an outcast from Roman society, persecuted by powerful enemies within the Vatican. Margherita was Raphael’s beloved and appeared as the Madonna in many of his paintings. Theirs was a love for the ages. But now that Raphael is gone, the convent is her only hope of finding an honest and peaceful life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Mother Superior agrees to admit Margherita to their order. But first, she must give up the ruby ring she wears on her left hand, the ring she had worn in Raphael’s scandalous nude “engagement portrait.” The ring has a storied past, and it must be returned to the Church or Margherita will be cast out into the streets. Behind the quiet walls of the convent, Margherita makes her decision . . . and remembers her life with Raphael—and the love and torment—embodied in that one precious jewel. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn \u003ci\u003eThe Ruby Ring\u003c\/i\u003e, Diane Haeger brings to life a love affair so passionate that it remains undimmed by time. Set in the sumptuous world of the Italian Renaissance, it’s the story of the clergymen, artists, rakes, and noblemen who made Raphael and Margherita’s world the most dynamic and decadent era in European history.Diane Haeger is the author of five previous historical novels, including \u003ci\u003eMy Dearest Cecelia\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Secret Wife of George IV\u003c\/i\u003e.  She lives in California.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a cold and darkly clouded afternoon as Margherita made her way  down the narrow, cobbled streets of the neighborhood called  Trastevere, shielded by a tangle of shoppers, merchants, stray dogs,  oxcarts, and gangs of children. The air smelled of horses, sheep, and  drying laundry that flapped between buildings above her. Before her  father could ask her to draw the dozen fresh loaves of baccio from  the blazing bread ovens she had slipped out the open door of the  bakery, carrying the dozing toddler on her hip. It was the only way  to get a moment's peace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCloaked in a midnight-blue wool cape and a simple green cloth dress,  she had vanished the moment all of the waiting customers had been  served. Surely Letitia could assist Father a bit more for a change.  It might actually benefit her sister, she thought with a rueful  little smile, to do something other than complain about life's  unfairness, and the lack of leisure time, when she continued to  insist upon producing children in such rapid succession.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWalking briskly away from the Via Santa Dorotea, Margherita passed a  toothless woman, her face a patchwork of wrinkles, and a garland of  garlic wrapped around her neck, as she sat before a shop bearing  cows' heads and pigs' feet hanging from bloody strands of rope. Above  the shop on the narrow, shadowy street were large windows barred with  heavy iron grates. The massive wooden doors between street-front  shops were studded and bolted in iron as well. Even in this weather  she was glad to be outside, glad it would rain soon. Her mother, God  rest her soul, had said that the rain always washed away the  predictable and brought with it possibilities, and she, too, liked to  believe that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePutting a sleeve across her nose, she moved away from the gutter  where a blue-black sludge and rancid piles of horse dung had gathered  tainting the air. She passed the busy fish market, and the vendors  calling out their prices, amid the pungent smell of the day's catch.  Such a tangle of odors, and so much activity. Nearby was an  apothecary shop, a grocer, and, beyond that, a grand stone stable  block for the nearby villa of the powerful banker Agostino Chigi. Her  sister's husband, Donato, worked there as a stableman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe held her cherub-faced little nephew, Matteo, who adored her  especially, close to her chest beneath her cloak as she walked with  brisk purpose onto the Via della Lungara toward the wildly opulent  Chigi Villa. To dream is to live, her sainted mother had also taught  her from the time she was old enough to understand the words. And  dreams were the only way out of a predictable existence. Here, away  from Trastevere and the bakery, she could make herself believe she  was almost equal to the women of means who moved around her. Here  she, too, was simply a woman, with a child, out on a day's errand.  Free to breathe, and to imagine. The baby's presence would keep men,  and their unwelcome attentions, at bay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoving nearer, her heart began to race with anticipation, as it  always did, as the majestic manor on the banks of the flowing Tiber  came into view. Dio! she thought, feeling the warm rush of freedom's  pleasure as she quickened her pace, avoiding more pools of sludge,  and pockets of litter and dung, along the path. She felt her smile  broaden with the little boy asleep in her arms, the hem of her simple  dress and cloak whispering across the cobbled stones, at last once  again in the shadow of the grand, classically frescoed Palazzo Chigi.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the fantasy was always the same. What must it be like, to live  amid this great, regal stuccoed giant, with its many elegant  mysteries? To actually know that sort of magnificent existence beyond  the slender pilasters, terra-cotta frieze; past its walls of  rough-hewn, honey-colored stone, with silk dresses, servants, and  meals on platters of Tuscan silver. When she was feeling brave like  this, and a little in need of her mother's dreams, she would steal  herself here to catch just a glimpse of the fantastically grand stone  villa beyond the daunting iron gates. Seeing it was, she thought, to  glimpse a bit of heaven.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMargherita could actually imagine that life of nobility that her  sister mocked. She would be like a princess, one who lived in  something like this villa of the great Chigi family. When she was  alone at night, brushing out her hair, and free to give into her  thoughts, she allowed herself to imagine servants readying her bed,  laying out her jewels and gown for the following day. There would be  silken sheets, rose petals cast upon them, and a coverlet full of  goose down . . . a banquet of sole with pine nuts, of rich Etruscan  wine, and a table just for sweets . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChecking Matteo, she glanced down and saw her rough hands. Baking  flour rimmed her small, round nails, as it did her father's. She  cringed, confronted again with a reality no magic could sweep away.  Margherita felt the dream steal, like a frightened child, back into  the corner of her heart. It was where she kept it safely locked away,  with all of the other memories of her mother, who had died when she  was young. It was the place she forgot to go more and more now,  between the mending and cooking, and the work at the bakery that  needed doing. Those were a child's dreams. She had a woman's life  now—and that life was firmly rooted beyond the ancient Porta  Settimiana, in Trastevere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You there! Signora!\" The menacing baritone voice startled her and  she glanced to see a green-and-gold liveried guard, glinting sword  drawn, glowering at her. \"Move along! You've no business here!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMargherita swallowed hard, feeling a sudden odd spark of haughty  indignation flare up through the initial burst of panic at the  authority in his tone. It was an unexpected sensation, and she tipped  up her chin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I believe you do not know that, signor guardia.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe guard, in formal puffed trunk hose, vest, and puffed toque,  looked at her appraisingly. A moment later, he began cruelly to  chuckle. \"Indeed I do know it, signora,\" he condescendingly declared.  \"If not by your garments, then certainly by the expression of pure  inferiority on your pretty, young face.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell-dressed passersby gaped at her, some of them whispering behind  raised hands, one man even chuckling to himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAngry at the sleight, something suddenly caused her to reply.  \"Allora, is this not a public street, signor guardia, where I may  look at whatever I wish?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The street is public, the residence you ogle is private.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I stand only on the street, bothering no one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like a bug landing on a sweet cake.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Are you always so charming?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis response was a snarl. \"True spirit, signora, falls flat in one  without the means to sustain it. It takes no more than a glance to  see that this neighborhood is well beyond the likes of you, and that  there is no good reason on earth for you to loiter here, and so I  tell you again to pass!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You know nothing of me. You yourself are but a servant to those  beyond your scope. And, by the way, brute force,\" she haughtily  countered, \"falls just as flat as spirit—in one without the mind to  see it through!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I shall not ask again,\" he growled. \"Move along, I say, back to  whatever rabbit warren you come from!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone behind her laughed mockingly then and Margherita felt the  heat of embarrassment redden her cheeks. The moment was over, but  spirit, for Margherita Luti, the baker's daughter, was a harder thing  to press away forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaphael stood firmly, arms crossed over his chest, in a velvet  doublet of deep scarlet, with full gold sleeves. His face, beneath  umber-colored, neatly tamed waves of shoulder-length hair, was tight  with frustration. It was not a classically handsome face, but  sensually intense. His cheekbones were high, his chin was small, and  his eyes were like clear black glass. Through the long, unshuttered  window of the richly paneled workshop, his studio, with its soaring  ceiling and heavy beams, a stream of buttery sunlight crossed the  woman. She sat perfectly still on a stone pedestal before the master  and his assistant. \"Per l'amor di Dio,\" he groaned, then turned from  her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeside him, still occupied with his own task, a young apprentice in a  dark-blue working robe, belted with frayed rope, stood at a long  plank table grinding colors into a wooden bowl. Another stood, tying  miniver paintbrushes, while still another sharpened drawing pencils.  Swirling throughout the workshop was the pungent odor of oil paint  and linseed oil, and all around was the relentless hum of ceaseless  activity. Worktables were littered with pallets, empty pewter  tankards, half-eaten plates of food, and unlit candles in puddles of  dry wax from the evening before—the unruly environment of a group of  men focused only on excesses of work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaphael nodded to the tall, ruddy-faced bear of a man, with a  distinguished shock of gray hair, punctuating his order with an  absent wave of the hand. It was a silent directive to pay the girl  for her trouble and see her home. It was the second time this week  alone that he had dismissed a model. Giovanni da Udine, the assistant  who had been with him the longest, let an audible sigh as his heavy  lidded eyes rolled to a close. The search would go on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaphael ran a hand over his face. He had known instantly she was not  right. To Giovanni, an artist far more literal than himself, the  faces of these girls were only acceptable circles, ovals, and other  linear or geometric shapes. A study of composition forced the  assistant to see forms as highlights and shadows, tones and halftones  to be added to or rejected from the work. To the master of this  workshop, the mastro, however, the criteria could not be more  different. She—this girl—was not right. Not for a Madonna.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere was nothing extraordinary in her eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he turned from the girl she was gone from his mind. Raphael  Sanzio was behind schedule on many projects more pressing than this,  and even the very lenient Pope Leo X had begun to show frustration.  Too many accepted commissions, from too many places, Raphael thought  now, and no matter how many apprentices he was given, the works were  still his to complete.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe rest of the large workshop, facing out onto the murky and  foul-smelling waters of the Tiber, was stacked with half-finished  works. Altarpieces, portraits, banners, and chests shared the room  with apprentices and assistants, in their paint-stained aprons, all  of them painting, mixing, carrying, or moving something. There were  Carrara marble pieces strewn about, heads and hands of wax, and  pieces of wood prepared for painting. In a corner nearby was a large,  intricate panel of the Assumption.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanding before a huge hunting tapestry on an iron rod, another  assistant was now doing the skilled work of applying sheets of beaten  gold onto the panel. On the other side of the room, nearest the  large, walk-in stone fireplace, sat an ancient-looking, withered old  man with a thatch of unruly white hair. He modeled for a gaunt-faced  assistant, also covered in a paint-stained working robe, who added to  a black chalk sketch he had begun earlier. Raphael studied the man's  sunken eyes, protruding lower lip, and plunging nose, all of which  suggested determination and weariness with life. They were elements  he could use on the face of Noah in God Appears to Noah, for one of  the ceiling bays in a new stanza—a grand room, at the Vatican Palace  which he was designing for the Holy Father. He made a mental note to  speak later with Giovanni about it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeside the old man, another senior assistant stood at an easel adding  a vivid shade of crimson oil paint to intensify the heavy cloak in a  new papal portrait, while still another was just beginning a panel by  applying the first layer of underpaint. Everywhere there were works  of art in various states of completion. The sketched figure of a  Madonna with no definable face dominated the workshop on a tall,  narrow panel propped on a large easel. It was to be part of a grand,  gabled altarpiece bearing the Apostles in solemn guardianship,  destined for the church of San Sisto. And now it was to be delayed  yet again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the girl stood and took the handful of coins, Giovanni turned back  to Raphael. \"But what will you do if you do not settle for this one,  mastro? You have promised Cardinal Bibbiena the altarpiece by month's  end, and you have yet to find the model!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Then we can do nothing more than keep searching, can we?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn point of fact, the commission for the new Madonna had been granted  to Raphael four years earlier, by the previous pontiff, Julius II. It  was to be a gift to the Benedictines in Piacenza as a token of that  city's voluntary annexation by the papal states. With all of the  other work given to Raphael by Julius's successor, Leo X, this old  project had claimed little of his attention. But there was to be a  celebration in Piacenza and the new pontiff wished to present the  painting then. It was whispered that Cardinal Bibbiena, a personal  friend and secretary to the new pope, was using the incomplete panel  as a way to undermine Raphael's standing at the Vatican. The reason  involved his own niece, Maria, to whom Raphael was betrothed, yet who  he had thus far successfully avoided marrying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBibbiena was growing impatient and angry, and the unfinished  commission gave him an excuse to nip at Raphael's heels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Dio mio,\" da Udine could not keep himself from groaning. \"But this  one really did fit the form perfectly.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I do not care if you believe she fits. Use her at Chigi's house for  one of the lunettes in the Galatea room if you like. She is simply  not a Madonna!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Respectfully, mastro, could you not have made any of these women we  have brought you into one?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaphael turned to him. His dark eyes were set deeply with commitment.  Yet they were eyes that saw life in a different way; with  consciousness of form, a strong graphic sense and luminous  penetration of detail. How could he make anyone else understand that  he must be inspired by a face—driven to re-create it as the very  image of the mother of Jesus Christ? It was not that he did not care.  This theme had come to symbolize, for him, his own mother holding him  as a child. A mother he had lost tragically, when he was just a boy.  To Raphael, painting various Madonna images had always been a way to  bring her back to life—a mother he idealized far more than he  remembered her, but a mother whose loss had forever changed his life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRaphael had painted a dozen Madonnas since leaving Urbino. Beneath  the tutelage of his own first master, Perugino, the Madonna had  become his most resonant theme. He had based them all at first on the  models, and the faces, chosen by Leonardo da Vinci, under whom he had  studied in Florence. But Raphael was no longer a pupil. Now, at the  age of thirty-one, he, too, was considered a master—a mastro. And  the idealized face of his youth, the one he had repeated in Madonna  after Madonna, would no longer satisfy his goals for the work.","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303592382693,"sku":"NP9781400051731","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400051731.jpg?v=1767741289","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-ruby-ring-isbn-9781400051731","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}