The Marriage Portrait(21)

“The letter from Ferrara,” Vitelli said, “is everything it should be.”

A crackle of paper, as if the letter itself was being perused.

“You will see,” Vitelli said, closer to the panelling now, as if he had moved towards Cosimo to read over his shoulder, “that the young man, and his father, the Duke, are devastated by the loss but they are also very gracious in expressing their sorrow on behalf of you and the Lady Maria’s mother.”

“Yes, yes,” Cosimo said, with a hint of impatience.

If the person to whom the listening ear belonged were to shift to the left, they might find a sliver of light betraying a chink in the panelling. And if the eye were pressed as close as possible to the gap, the person could make out the glow of candelabra, the shapes of chairs, a standing figure, presumably Vitelli, and a seated person attired in something lustrous and brown. The Grand Duke Cosimo, in his sable robe, which he wore on cold days in his bedchamber.

“A second letter,” Vitelli said, after a moment, for he knew when to stay silent and when to speak, “has reached me, from one of Ferrara’s retinue.”

Cosimo leant heavily back in his chair. “And?”

“It is implied that the Duke is as sorry as you to miss the chance of a union between your children. It further mentions, delicately so I might add, that the old Duke’s health is not good and that it can be only a matter of time before the son, Alfonso, succeeds him. Therefore, I need hardly tell you, it is pressing that we respond quickly. There are many keen to fill this vacancy so—”

“Yes, but what can be done? It isn’t as if—”

“It has been hinted,” Vitelli said, “that he might be open to marriage between his son and another of your daughters.”

“But…” Cosimo scratched at his beard “…Lady Isabella is already betrothed and I cannot easily undo such a match so how does he anticipate…?”

Vitelli cleared his throat respectfully. “I believe, Your Grace, that they may be referring to the Lady Lucrezia.”

The eavesdropper in the passage might then have drawn back from the sliver of light. The shock was as great as if the people in the room had turned and seen through the solid wood of the wall, seen everything, seen her standing behind them, eye to the crack.

“Lucrezia?” Cosimo was repeating. “But she is just a child, a…”

Vitelli coughed again. “She will be thirteen soon.”

“Thirteen? No, she is…ten, perhaps? She is still in the nursery, she still plays with a doll. How can Ferrara be thinking of—?”

Some movement from Vitelli made him stop.

“She is young, yes, and small in stature, but she will be thirteen before long, my lord. It would be a very advantageous match, as you yourself have said, many times. Only think: this is another chance to formalise a union between our region and that of Ferrara. The son will soon become duke. Yes, there is the trouble with his mother and her religious tendencies, but that situation may be managed, if the son is as able as my informant claims. And if we pass up this opportunity, there will be many others who rush to seize it. And it cannot be long until Lucrezia…” Vitelli allows a fastidious pause “…reaches womanhood. If she has not already. I can make enquiries. So it may be a matter your lordship would like to consider.”

From elsewhere in the building, another, rougher, voice might be heard to call, in exasperated tones: “Lucrezia! Lucrezia! Where has the girl got to?”

The listener backed away from the passage wall and ran up to the next floor, on swift and panicked feet.



* * *





Sofia was doling out soup when Lucrezia came streaking into the nursery, as if pursued by a pack of wolves, her hair disarrayed, the door banging shut behind her.

“You,” Sofia said, brandishing the ladle. “Where on earth have you been? I was calling and calling. Sit down this instant.”

Lucrezia slid into her chair at the table and took up her spoon. Sofia continued to castigate her but the sound rippled over Lucrezia’s head. She didn’t eat, but let her spoon sweep from one side of the bowl to the other, like an oar pushing a galley ship through the sea. Eventually, Garzia took the soup from her and ate it himself.

She thought of the conversation she had just overheard, between Vitelli and her father. She thought of the son of the Duke of Ferrara, the shine of his boots, the way he had stepped past her at the top of the tower, the brush of his thumb against her cheek. She thought of Maria, and how the doctors came and went from her chamber for two nights, the shuffle of their feet along the passages, and then all that was left of her eldest sister was nailed into a long wooden box. Maria was gone from among them; they had lost the head of the creature that was the palazzo children. Lucrezia had heard that their father had ordered Maria’s portrait to be taken from the mezzanine and hung in his private rooms. She thought of Maria’s impassive, pretty eyes scrutinising the chamber for evermore. Did their father look upon it daily? Did he memorise the contours of his lost daughter’s face? Did he stand before it when he received the letter from Maria’s fiancé’s father, the one that asked if Alfonso might marry a different daughter?

What might Maria have said?

The thought that she, Lucrezia, might now be promised to this man, this son of Ferrara, was so shocking, so unexpected, she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to approach the idea. That she might be expected to take the place of her dead sister struck her with a terrible, immobilising unease. Her mind began to occupy itself with all the differences between her and Maria: Lucrezia was smaller; she was not nearly so accomplished in music and dancing; she never could think of what to say to visitors and courtiers; she tended to day-dream and drift off, instead of paying attention to the conversation in a room; she wasn’t nearly so pretty; she had no skill with dress or ornament.