The Marriage Portrait, page 26
The hoofs of the horses clatter on the bridge; she sees a swallow veer along the surface of the moat, a blue-black arrow, then disappear under an arch. Lucrezia passes under the portcullis, pulled up, its metal spikes pointing down towards her, and then she is inside, the doors pushed shut behind her, the castello secured, and they are entering an open courtyard surrounded on four sides by vertiginous walls; Alfonso and Leonello are dismounting, tossing their reins to waiting groomsmen; Alfonso is pulling off his riding gloves, stretching his neck from side to side, and coming towards her horse to help her down.
Taking her arm through his, he turns her and together they face the mass of bowing servants and soldiers assembled before them. Alfonso passes his eyes over them, acknowledging their respect, accepting their deference, then gives them a nod and moves, with Lucrezia, towards the loggia’s cool shade.
Then they are ascending a wide marble staircase, Alfonso saying something about a Dutch viceroy and a treaty over his shoulder to Leonello, who is following them, and something else about Urbino and a letter of intent. Leonello is saying, hmm, hmm, as if neither agreeing nor disagreeing with what Alfonso is saying, but committing it to memory. Lucrezia tries to stay several paces ahead, pulling the orbit of her skirts away from him: she hates to think of him coming up behind her, where she cannot see him. She tries, too, not to recall the noise of the serving boy’s face as it struck the travelling box, that yielding thud.
The three of them arrive, Leonello and Alfonso still conversing about state matters, on a landing with tapestries hung on the walls. Lucrezia is turning her head to examine them—scenes of a mythic nature, with unicorns curled at the base of trees—when some servants dart forward to open heavy wooden doors, and they are passing through them, into a large state room with a lofty, vaulted ceiling; the walls are elaborately painted with, Lucrezia sees out of the corner of her eye, unclothed males, in a row, their arms held up in what might be joy or anger—it is hard to tell.
“Allow me,” Alfonso says, with a brief inclination of his head, “to present my sisters.”
Lucrezia is taken aback. She had assumed she was being guided towards her chamber, where she might change out of her travelling clothes and prepare herself to be received by Alfonso’s family, for the formal menare a casa. She had thought she would have several hours for this task. But here she is, still in her dusty giornea and cloak, her hair blown about, her gloves grimy. And here are they: distant figures at the far end of the room, on a dais, moving from sitting to standing, turning their faces towards her. Trying to hide her discomposure, Lucrezia slides her arm out of Alfonso’s and curtseys deeply in the direction of the figures—were there two of them, or three, and was Alfonso’s mother there?—bending her neck, just as she has been taught, so that her gaze rests on the rug.
There is an exclamation, then the sound of feet on the patterned marble, and a soft, musical voice saying, “We are so glad you have come. What a joy it is to finally meet you, Lucrezia.”
A hand lands on her arm and Lucrezia raises her head to see a woman in an inky-blue sleeveless gown looking down at her. She is considerably taller than Lucrezia, with the same dark eyes as her brother, but with a fragile face, high cheekbones and a curving red mouth.
“Thank you,” Lucrezia falters, unnerved by the woman’s warmth, her poised beauty, “Your Highness. It is an honour and a—”
The woman takes Lucrezia’s fingers in her own. “Please, call me Elisabetta—we are sisters now, are we not?” She gestures at a second woman, coming haltingly forwards. “And here is Nunciata.”
Lucrezia curtseys once more, conscious that Nunciata is looking her up and down. The sisters could not be more different. Elisabetta’s shining dark hair is divided and piled up behind a lace band. She wears a stiffened ruff around her lovely column of a neck and a pearl choker. The slashed fabric of her gown reveals pale rose silk beneath and her slim feet are encased in gold leather shoes. Lucrezia wants to stare at her face, her dress, her jewels, so that she may memorise it all. She would guess her age to be around twenty-six or twenty-seven. Nunciata, however, is not so well favoured: her small eyes peer out of pasty skin, her neck is thick, with a soft chin disappearing into it. She is stout and short in stature, the crease between her brows suggesting that she is given to frowning, and her dress is dun-coloured, rigid with brocade. Tucked beneath her arm is a small spaniel with silky ears and a hostile, imperious face.
“Welcome,” Nunciata says, in a tone that pulls away from the meaning of the word, and gives a stiff nod.
Lucrezia smiles, hoping to communicate to her that she brings no judgement on her appearance, that she knows what it is to be the overlooked, less-admired sister. But Nunciata is looking away, across the room, towards the windows, where Alfonso stands conferring with Leonello.
“I see that marriage has yet to improve his manners.” Nunciata sighs and calls across to him querulously. “Aren’t you going to come and greet us? Or are you now expecting your little bride to do it for you?”
Alfonso gives no sign of having heard her, continuing his conversation.
“She is a very little bride,” Nunciata remarks, peering short-sightedly at Lucrezia’s feet, then her arms, her hair, anywhere but at her face. “Somewhat delicate-looking, is she not?”
Elisabetta flicks her gaze between sister and brother, then back to Lucrezia, giving her hand, which she still holds, a small and reassuring squeeze.
“She is lovely,” Elisabetta says, “perfectly lovely. What a fortunate choice for—”
“Perhaps what I mean is young,” Nunciata interrupts. “You seem very young,” she adds, more loudly, in an accusatory tone, as if Lucrezia is somehow at fault in this. “I thought you were near twenty or so—”
“No.” Elisabetta cuts across her swiftly and smoothly, and they know, all of them, that Nunciata is mixing up Lucrezia with Maria, the bride who never was, and Lucrezia feels sure that if she were to turn her head, she might see Maria standing beside her, arms folded, peeved, much in the stance that Nunciata has adopted. “Lucrezia is…fourteen, I believe, or fifteen?” She turns to Lucrezia for confirmation.
Lucrezia nods. “I will be sixteen in—”
“A charming age!” Elisabetta exclaims. “To be almost sixteen is—”
“Very young,” Nunciata mutters again, in the direction of her sister’s ear, her face twisted with anxious displeasure, like someone who suspects she has been cheated in a purchase. “Not too young,” she adds, in a whisper she apparently, and mistakenly, seems to think Lucrezia cannot hear, “we hope?”
Colour rises to the delicate cheekbones of Elisabetta and she appears to struggle to know what to say. For a split second, Lucrezia believes that Elisabetta is embarrassed by her sister’s lack of tact, by her blundering indiscretion, but then Elisabetta looks quickly at the floor, bowing her head, and Lucrezia, aghast, sees that Nunciata has, instead, pinpointed and voiced Elisabetta’s own concern, that they are, all of them, perhaps everyone in this building, just biding their time, desperately waiting for her to become pregnant.
Lucrezia stands there, in her travelling dress, in her fifteen-year-old skin. She feels as though these people desire to see right through her; they are like anatomists who peel back the hides of animals to peer inside, who unclothe muscle from skin and vein from bone, assessing and concluding and noting. They, all of them, pulse with the craving, the need, to see a child growing within her, to know that an heir is secured for them. They see her as the portal, the means to their family’s survival. Lucrezia wants to fasten her cloak about herself, to hide her hands up her sleeves, to tie her cap to her head, to pull a veil over her face. You shall not look at me, she wants to say, you shall not see into me. I will not be yours. How dare you assess me and find me lacking? I am not La Fecundissima and never will be.
There is a movement to the side of her and Maria once again flits across her mind but the hand that closes over hers is familiar and warm: a tall presence is stepping in next to her. Alfonso.
He surveys his sisters, then looks at Lucrezia, scanning her face. If he manages to divine what has passed between the them, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he lifts her hand and, in front of his sisters, clasps it to his chest.
“What do you think?” he says to them. “Is she not a beauty? Did I not tell you I had chosen well?”
“Oh, yes,” Elisabetta says, with visible relief, “oh, you did. It is wonderful to meet her. I am so happy, she is lovely.” Nunciata nods, her mouth pursed into a line, then mutters something about how they had feared he would never settle down but would continue in his youthful ways for ever, so it is a greatly fortunate event for this family that he has entered into matrimony, finally.
Alfonso allows a short silence after Nunciata subsides. He is unmoving, his eye trained upon her. Then he transfers Lucrezia’s hand to his sleeve and holds it there, tight, in the crook of his arm. She can feel the iron-like contraction of muscle against her palm.
Lucrezia clears her throat. She feels that if anyone is to speak, it should be her. “Is there…” She hesitates, looking about the room, as if she might find a different topic of conversation among its furnishings and chairs. “Will I have the pleasure of meeting your honoured mother today? And your elder sister?”
Elisabetta flinches, her brows lifting, and she glances at Alfonso.
Nunciata snorts. “Are you,” she gestures with the arm not holding the little dog, her gown rustling indignantly, “intending to travel on to France?”
Lucrezia is thrown by this reply. “I…no…Are they—?”
Elisabetta sighs. “What do you wish us to say, Fonso?” she murmurs.
Alfonso doesn’t reply. He disengages himself from Lucrezia, walks towards a table and pours himself a draught of wine. “What do I wish you to say?” he repeats. “Whatever do you mean, Elisabetta?”
“You know exactly what she means,” Nunciata snaps, and the spaniel, as if sensing its mistress’s irritation, lets out a sharp, high bark.
Alfonso takes a sip from his glass, eyeing Nunciata and her dog over the rim. Lucrezia takes a step back. It is as if the room is filled with flickering flames, visible only to these three siblings, hidden conflagrations that would burn if she came too near them.
“My mother,” Alfonso enunciates these words clearly, and Lucrezia realises with a jolt that he is addressing her, “is now in France, with our sister Anna. As I told you. So I struggle to comprehend why, my darling,” he says, swirling the wine around in its vessel, “you would ask about them.”
Lucrezia opens her mouth to say, You never told me, you never told me anything. I assumed they would be here in Ferrara. You said that everything had been resolved to your satisfaction. But she closes it again. Elisabetta has seen this: she is looking at Lucrezia closely, sympathetically.
“Let us not talk of sad matters,” Elisabetta declares, clapping her hands. “We must plan a celebration of your arrival, Lucrezia. I shall arrange a festa, with music and plays, to welcome you—we shall have the singers Alfonso likes so much, the ones he ordered from Rome. Not tonight, however,” she adds hastily. “You must be tired from your journey. May we steal her away, Alfonso? Nunciata and I will take her to her chambers. I’m sure you would like to rest and unpack. We will have lots of time for conversation in the weeks to come. First, come with us and see your rooms. They are all prepared. I saw to it myself.”
“Thank you,” Lucrezia says. And when she sees the rooms, she says thank you again. Thank you, thank you. There is a private salon, which is perfectly square, occupying the highest floor of one of the castello towers; it has thick wall hangings, a writing desk, plush chairs, a huge fireplace, and two windows with cushioned seats. And through a door there is a smaller chamber, with a curtained bed, a mirror, cupboards and chests for her clothes. Already she can see servants placing her trunks and boxes in orderly piles. Emilia is moving among the luggage, counting off items on her fingers.
Nunciata struggles into the tower room, puffing, and lowers herself on to a chair, complaining about how fast they went, how she had forgotten the distance. The spaniel she puts on the floor, whereupon it disappears under the wide spread of her skirts.
“I hope you will be comfortable here,” Elisabetta says, while her sister, who is fanning herself, is still complaining about the stairs. “I arranged these rooms myself, but you must say if there is anything not to your liking or—”
“Oh, no,” Lucrezia bursts out. “It is all perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing. They are beautiful rooms. You have both been so kind.”
“Not at all.” Elisabetta seats herself on one of the velvet settles. “It was my pleasure. We were so happy when Alfonso got married. Weren’t we, Nuncià?”
Nunciata grunts, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief.
“It was everything my sisters and I hoped for. And…” Elisabetta pauses to adjust her cuff “…also my mother. I only wish she…could have been in attendance.”
Lucrezia sits down next to her; she wants so badly to ask about the mother, why she left, what Alfonso said, do Elisabetta and Nunciata miss her, do they think she will come back, and what of Anna, their eldest sister, will she marry and produce an heir, and will that heir want Alfonso’s title, castello and lands, and does this now mean that all hope for Alfonso’s line is pinned on her, has the pressure for her to produce a child increased tenfold, that she blurts out instead: “You are not married?”
Elisabetta turns her dark eyes on her.
“Forgive me,” Lucrezia says, “I speak out of—”
“Nothing to forgive,” Elisabetta says, in a light tone. “No, I am not. And neither is Nuncià. I cannot speak for her but I have yet to receive an offer that tempts me.”
“Into matrimony,” Nunciata murmurs mockingly, “that is. For you are tempted by other types of offers, are you not, Elisa?”
“Nuncià, please.” Elisabetta’s colour is high, her cheeks burning. For the first time, she has lost her poise, her veneer of calm.
“One in particular,” her sister continues, in a malicious whisper.
Elisabetta turns towards Lucrezia and says, through a set mouth, “My sister likes to tease.”
“I have sisters, too,” Lucrezia says, “so I know how it is.” Then she corrects herself confusedly. “A sister, I mean. I had two but…”
Elisabetta reaches out and covers Lucrezia’s hand with her own. For a moment, the three of them—the bride, the two sisters-in-law—sit in silence, a triangular shape inside the square of the room.
Then Elisabetta, with refined skill, removes her hand to gesture at the window, where the blue Ferrara sky is already darkening. “It is getting late. We will leave you. Nuncià, shall we?”
Nunciata, putting away her handkerchief, nods, but neither gets to her feet. Lucrezia shifts inside her dress. The spaniel pokes its face—snub nose and bulging eyes—out of Nunciata’s skirt to stare fixedly at Lucrezia.
“Will you take supper here in your rooms tonight?” Elisabetta enquires. “We can order it to be brought.”
“I’m sure she is capable of ordering her own meals,” Nunciata snaps. “Such things were possible in Florence, were they not?”
Lucrezia looks from one sister to the other. What would be the correct reply? She does not understand what has passed between the two of them, but she is aware that Nunciata has scored some acrimonious triumph or other over the beautiful Elisabetta, who is discomposed and flushed. Lucrezia knows enough about siblings to be aware that when Elisabetta and Nunciata leave this room, bitter words and accusations and justifications, perhaps reaching back over their shared lifetime, will be exchanged and aired.
“Yes,” she says. “Of course. Please don’t trouble yourselves any further on my account.”
“Very well,” Elisabetta says, in her musical voice. She gathers her skirts around herself, preparing to leave. But she does not look at Lucrezia or Nunciata when she says, “You will not repeat my sister’s silly remark, will you? To Alfonso, that is?”
Lucrezia blinks.
“It would only…” Elisabetta chooses her words “…worry him. He has so much on his mind. I wouldn’t want to add to his cares. And Nunciata was only teasing. Weren’t you?” she appeals to her sister.
Nunciata is fussing over her dog, letting its ears slide through her hands, ignoring Elisabetta. Again, Lucrezia has that sensation of flames flickering in the air between them.
“Was I?” Nunciata says eventually.
“Yes, you were.”
“If you say so.”
“Do you promise, Lucrè?” Elisabetta says, with an attempt at playfulness, but Lucrezia can hear the knife-edge of anxiety in her voice. “I may call you Lucrè, may I not?”
“Of course,” Lucrezia says. “My sister calls me that.”
“Then it is entirely fitting. We are sisters now, also.”
“And I promise,” Lucrezia says, “that I won’t mention this to Alfonso.” She thinks she would promise anything to the lovely creature who has furnished these rooms for her, who is so anxious to conceal something about herself that she has to pretend it doesn’t matter at all.
“Thank you,” Elisabetta says. “It is of no consequence, you understand. Just a trifling matter. But thank you.”
Elisabetta’s heart-shaped face relaxes with relief. She reaches out and gives Lucrezia’s cheek a light pinch. “Such a sweet and pretty thing you are,” she murmurs. “Alfonso made a wise choice. Don’t you think, Nuncià?”
Nunciata makes a non-committal noise. The spaniel, sighting a pigeon on a balustrade, emits a tiny growl, lurching forward on its slender lead.
Elisabetta touches her fingers thoughtfully to Lucrezia’s hair, bound as usual inside its band and scuffia. “This is a Florentine fashion?”
“I…” Lucrezia raises her hand to the net, feeling the seed pearls pushing back into her palm “…it…My mother wears it like this. I believe it was a custom of her own mother. And we, her daughters, always—”
