With love,

Anita

Tesoro mio,

How I long to watch your words fall from your beautiful lips before me. Until I can be reunited with you, I will have to settle for your uplifting words on paper. I have made some progress: We’ve been able to get the provincial Milanese government to agree to give us uniforms. But with every gift there is a catch. We were explicitly told no red. The nobility doesn’t care about the reputation of the Redshirts. They say it’s because the color is not sanctioned, but I feel as if they will choose the opposite of what I suggest just to spite me. My second-in-command, Medici, and I were handed a catalogue and told that we could choose whatever uniform we wanted from its pages. The problem is, all of the uniforms have already been chosen! We could look like the French. We could look like the Prussians. Or as Medici said, “Lord help the poor soul who chooses to look like the Austrians. If we dress like the enemy, we’ll be firing on ourselves and not even know it.”

We have reluctantly settled on white. So now instead of butchers we look like bakers. Well, I suppose if all else fails we could always bake the Austrians a cake! Perhaps they will be so disgruntled by our pastries that they will be repelled from Italy of their own accord? Speaking of that, have Paolo’s cooks make you a torta pasqualina. I have dreamed of it for a fortnight.

Now that we have our uniforms, we need to find munitions. The war council has yet to approve any weapons for us. They are slow to approve anything that we ask for. The Milanese government acts as if we are pests as opposed to the aid that they need.

Tesoro mio, my chest is bursting with pride over the wonderful work that you have been doing in Genoa.

Until I am able to return to you,

José

Forty-Seven

May 1848

I stared out the window of my carriage as we rattled along the cobblestone road toward Elisa’s spacious townhome in the center of the city. Fresh ocean air drifted in on the cool wind. I would have much rather walked on such a nice day, but Paolo insisted I take the carriage. “It would be unseemly if Mrs. Garibaldi did a common thing such as walk.”

During our stay in Genoa I came to trust Paolo and his advice. A bachelor by design, he found the invasion of the Garibaldi family a welcome novelty. At the dinner table he often regaled us with tales of his adventures with his brother both during their childhood and as adult merchants exploring South America. To my children he was the entertaining Zio Paolo but behind the laughter and the exaggerated hand gestures, I could see that he missed his brother, who had yet to return to Italy with his family.

I jolted back to attention when the carriage came to an abrupt stop in front of an expansive town house covered with ancient ivy. Striding to the large oak door, I knocked with all my strength. This visit had to go the way I planned; there could be no mistakes. I was ushered into Elisa’s private parlor. Large purple irises bloomed from a crystal vase near the open window. The lace curtains rippled against the burgundy walls.