The Marriage Portrait(23)

Sofia let go of Lucrezia’s hand, struggling upright, her breath coming in short gasps. She walked to the window, with her uneven, limping gait, one hand held to her lower back, and looked out at the piazza. Then she paced to the fireplace, where she seized the poker and plunged it into the blaze, the logs spitting and protesting at the disturbance, sending a constellation of sparks flying up the blackened, soot-furred chimney.

“We may,” she said, seemingly addressing the logs, “need to be clever about this, you and me. Like a pair of foxes. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Lucrezia said she did but had no real inkling of what Sofia meant. She turned on to her side and began to raise herself on her elbows. Sofia came over to her and gripped her under the arm, raising her to her feet. Then she pressed a palm to each side of Lucrezia’s face. “Vitelli will come up here soon,” she whispered. “He will want an interview with you and me.”

“He will?”

Sofia pressed harder on Lucrezia’s face. It was a peculiar embrace—uncomfortable yet kind, urgent yet fond. “Whatever I say, whatever answer I give him, you follow my lead. Do you hear me?”

Lucrezia nodded, baffled.

“He will ask questions and I will answer, not you. Whatever I say, just nod your head. And don’t tell anyone about this. Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Not your mamma, not Isabella, not anyone.”

“I promise.”

“We won’t be able to stop this marriage but, with God’s help, we can delay it, just a little. Until you are grown. A year or two’s grace. Yes?”

For a moment, and just for a moment, Sofia caught Lucrezia to her chest, hard. Lucrezia’s nose and cheek were crushed to her apron. Then she released her and moved quickly towards the table, saying something about the mess and the dishes and why doesn’t anyone ever lend a hand to help her, what do they take her for, some kind of workhorse?



* * *





Sofia was, of course, right.

Vitelli appeared the very next day, late in the evening, announced by two sharp raps at the nursery door.

The younger boys had been put to bed; the two other nurses had been told to darn the children’s winter stockings; at the request of the art tutor, Lucrezia was making a study in oils of a dead starling she had found on the mezzanine, turning it one way, then turning it over, trying to capture the fleeting iridescence of its wing feathers. Sofia was counting linens in and out of a chest.

When the knock came at the door, Sofia’s head jerked up. She looked at the door, she looked at Lucrezia. Then she did a strange thing: she carried on counting linens. Lucrezia saw the two younger nurses exchange puzzled glances but they knew better than to answer. This was Sofia’s dominion and no one would open that door but her.

The knock came again, this time sharper and louder.

“Seven,” said Sofia, unperturbed, to her stack of linens, “eight, nine.” She sighed with satisfaction, putting the last folded square on its pile with a pat. “And ten.”

Lucrezia and the other nurses watched as Sofia opened the coffer lid and placed the stack of linens in its depths, carefully, without a hint of hurry.

Again, the door resounded with a deep, insistent knock.

“Just a moment,” Sofia called. “I’m coming.”

She took a cloth to the top of the coffer, wiping away imaginary dust. She edged across the room, crooning a song to herself, taking a moment to straighten a bowl on the table, and another to tuck a stool underneath it. She whisked her duster over the door handle, then straightened her cap in the mirror above the fireplace.

When she at last opened the door, she looked the caller up and down.

“Signor Vitelli?” she exclaimed. “What a surprise. Will you step inside?”

Vitelli strode into the room, coming to a stop in the middle of the rug. He was holding a leather-bound desk book to his chest and was wearing a long cloak trimmed with rabbit fur, which swirled about his legs.

“You,” he pointed at the nurses, whose needles were poised above their darning, “and you. Leave.”

The two nurses turned frightened eyes to Sofia, who was standing by the door, her duster still in her hand.

Sofia waited, regarding Vitelli as if examining his attire for spots of dirt, then nodded to them. They gathered up their work and their threads and scuttled to the chamber, shutting the door behind them.

“What can I do for you, signore?” Sofia said, squinting up at him. “Will you take a drink? Lucrezia and I were just about to—”

“No,” Vitelli cut across her, opening his book and peering down at something written there. “I shall not stay long. There is a matter on which I wish to consult you.” He cleared his throat, a two-note sound. “A rather delicate matter.”

Lucrezia shifted in her chair. She passed her paintbrush from one hand to the other, teasing its damp bristles into a narrow point. She had made this brush from a patch of fur she had snipped—guiltily, furtively—from one of the palazzo cats; she’d come across it, stretched out and napping beside a fire. The cat hadn’t even woken up and, Lucrezia saw only the other day, its fur had completely grown back.

She was just moving the brush’s wetted tip back and forth in the dab of blue paint—she had only the tiniest amount of this colour, so had to be careful about how she used it—when Vitelli spoke again.