The Marriage Portrait(102)
But the longing to be back in Florence, to be away from here, is so potent that it creates a sickness in Lucrezia. She cannot bear the thought of food; she cannot remain still. She cannot sit at a table or lie down; if she does, she is hit by images of Contrari, his handsome face distorted by the agony of his death, his neck ringed with bruises, or Baldassare’s hands with their broad knuckles and short fingers, or the beautiful Elisabetta, dishevelled and haggard with grief. Lucrezia will not remain indoors, despite the pleading of her women. Sadness keeps attempting to tie weights to her wrists and ankles, therefore she has to keep moving, she has to outpace it.
And so she walks, along one terrace then another, from one battlement to the next, and as she goes, she concentrates on recreating a part of the palazzo for herself. The route from one window of the nursery to the other—the uneven board that squeals in damp weather, the fringe of the tablecloth, the smooth wood of the chairs, the sounds of her brothers’ footsteps—or the painted ceiling in the salon, each face, each ripple of cloth, each scudding cloud.
She asks Clelia to bring her desk box out to the loggia, and a small table. When these things arrive, she stops her pacing, takes a sheet of paper, and writes a letter to her parents. Please, she inscribes in dark ink, the breeze coming up from the moat tugging at her quill, as if it desires to snatch it from her, let me come home. She thinks carefully about what to say, how to put it. I miss you all, is what unscrolls from her nib. Can you send for me? She tries to think of how to describe what has happened here. She cannot form the letters for his name—Contrari, her mind hisses at her, Contrari, over and over again, until she feels quite mad with it—but she refers to him as the Head of the Guardsmen. She writes the phrase, put to death; she writes, forced to watch; she writes, Elisabetta has gone and She was my only friend here. Just before she signs her name, she writes down what is in her heart: I no longer feel safe in this place.
She seals the letter and gives it to Emilia to dispatch, not Clelia. She does not trust Clelia, and never has. The sly, sideways gaze of her, the way she watches Lucrezia all the time, her pale hands, always damp in the palms. Clelia, Lucrezia suddenly sees, with the clarity of misery, has always been a spy for Nunciata, feeding back information on and impressions of Lucrezia. Never mind—she will not take her when she goes home; she and Emilia will go together, alone. Alfonso cannot object, if her father requests her return. Perhaps in a day or two her father will send horses, and men to accompany them, to lead them back over the Apennines. And then, perhaps by early morning, they will see Florence, laid out before them, the Arno river cutting through the houses and buildings, the cupola shining in the sun, and the battlements of the palazzo, like the strong teeth of a bear. Her parents will greet her with joy and relief, glad to have her back among them, telling her they have missed her, admiring how much she has grown, how accomplished and gracious she looks.
On the third day of Alfonso’s absence, a lady-in-waiting of Nunciata comes to find her. Lucrezia is on the ducal terrace on the north-eastern side of the castello; she has ordered all the windows behind her to be thrown open, for she wants to be sure that the rooms will be swept through and refreshed by clean air. The lady-in-waiting puts her head out of one, frowning. She takes in Lucrezia, swathed in her furs, pacing from one end of the terrace to the other. She tells Emilia and Clelia to bring Her Ladyship within, this very minute, or she will catch her death of cold. Lucrezia ignores her, will not answer even Emilia’s entreaties to come inside, to rest awhile.
Nunciata herself appears, the next day, panting from the climb up the stairs, and stands in the doorway out to the orangery, where Lucrezia has spent the day, moving among the bare branches of the trees. She holds a cloth over her face, so as not to catch whatever it is that ails Lucrezia. As Alfonso has had to go away, she says to them, through the fabric, she herself is responsible for the Duchess. What is all this she has been hearing about Lucrezia refusing to come indoors? What kind of notion is this? Is this all about the dead Contrari? Lucrezia must know that to demonstrate such excessive grief for that man is tantamount to treason. Her loyalties must always lie with Alfonso. Doesn’t she realise that?
Lucrezia, with her face turned outwards, towards the city, says she has no wish to discuss it. It is, she says, of no significance to Nunciata.
“No significance?” Nunciata repeats, her words muffled by the cloth. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You have never liked me,” Lucrezia says, the words clear and carrying. “And, anyway, I shall be leaving here soon enough.”
“Where are you going?” Nunciata enquires crossly, from her position by the door, shivering in the wintry breeze.
“Back to Florence, of course,” Lucrezia says, believing that the conversation is at an end and that Nunciata will now withdraw.
But Nunciata does not leave. She conducts a hissed conversation with Clelia instead. Has Lucrezia a fever? Whatever can be making her behave so oddly? What nonsense is this about Florence? Is she suffering from a skin disorder, a cough, a pain of the throat? Clelia shakes her head each time. What, then? Nunciata asks. Clelia shrugs and says something about Lucrezia feeling nauseated and refusing food, that it is all she can do to persuade her to take a little milk, every now and again. Nunciata lets the cloth fall from her face, and looks thoughtfully at Lucrezia, all the way from her pale face to her feet, before bustling off with new purpose, apparently thrilled about something.