The Marriage Portrait(25)

No, Sofia had said. And she, Lucrezia, must do her part. She must keep her head lowered, like this, keep looking at the starling, at the imperfect picture she has made of it. She must never let on to Vitelli that Sofia had crossed her fingers, behind her back, that Sofia had shown Lucrezia what to do when the bleedings come: fold and fold a cloth to pad herself; take a stone that has been smoothed by the river and heat it in the fire, just enough, then wrap it in linen and lay it on your stomach. To draw the blood down, to ease its passage, Sofia had said, as Lucrezia lay on the bed, stupefied by the cramping ache. Twice, this had happened to Lucrezia. And Sofia said, It will come every month, just like the fullness of the moon. It comes to all women. Even Mamma? Lucrezia asked, incredulous, unable to believe that her serene, bejewelled mother could ever be laid low by something like this. Sofia had nodded. Even Mamma, she said.

And now, in the hot room, with Vitelli looking so furious and thwarted, and Sofia so small yet obdurate before him, Lucrezia would have liked to ask: What has this to do with the Duke’s heir, with marriage, with her age, with anything? But she could not. She must pick up her paintbrush and rinse the traces of ultramarine from its cat-fur bristles, and she must survey her painting with a face of absolute stillness, as still as the starling on the table before her. She must not give anything away—the bleeding, the cloths, the hot stones, Sofia.

“I see,” Vitelli said. His tone is clipped, disappointed. “Well, she has always been small for her age, I suppose. Undergrown.”

Sofia shrugged. The fingers behind her back relaxed, untangled.

“We can proceed with the betrothal negotiations but we shall tell the Ferrara court that the marriage will have to wait until such time that the Lady Lucrezia begins her…” Vitelli waved a hand through the air. He was not about to repeat the words for the subject under discussion, unless strictly necessary. “You will inform me, signora, please, when this commences?”

“Certainly,” said Sofia. She moved sideways slightly, then back, as if to make her skirts swish one way, then the other. It was an act that carried a vague yet indiscernible hint of triumph, the sense of a point won.

Vitelli must have felt this, too, because he frowned and turned stern. “In person, if you please.”

“Of course, signore.” Sofia smiled, showing all the dark vacancies in her mouth. “I shall come to you myself, as soon as I know anything. And we shall look forward to the wedding day, with much excitement.”

Vitelli held her gaze, as if ascertaining whether or not she was in earnest, then moved away. He was about to stride out of the door, when he seemed to think better of it, and walked towards the table where Lucrezia was sitting.

She watched as he advanced, getting closer and closer and taller and taller, until her neck was craned backwards. Her mouth felt suddenly dry, her heart thumping in her chest. What if he were to put the same question to her? How could she lie to him? What if he asked her if Sofia told the truth? What could she say? And what would he do to Sofia, if he knew?

Vitelli was so close to her now she could see the individual hairs in the fur of his cloak trim: flecked, they were, with lighter, almost golden, tips and darker roots. She wondered how many rabbits had had to die to make this cloak for him. Seven, eight, nine? Were they old rabbits, ready to die, or young ones with soft, unlived-in fur?

Vitelli was leaning over her. For a strange moment, she thought he might envelop her, throw the cloak around her and carry her off, away from the safe walls of the nursery, away from Sofia, and down to the depths of the palazzo where the son of the Duke of Ferrara would be waiting, slowly removing his slashed sleeves, and his face would not be that of a mouse, it would be grim and carnivorous and he would want to know why she had done nothing to save her sister, why Maria had died, how she could think she might ever take her place as his wife, how dare she?

But Vitelli was putting his hand to her painting. He was lifting the small square of tavola by its corner and holding it to his face.

“Whose work is this?” he asked.

Lucrezia, unable to speak, turned her finger upon herself and pointed at her chest.

Vitelli didn’t see. He was taking out his eyeglasses and positioning them on the bridge of his nose so that he could examine the painting at close quarters. His face, beholding the tiny rendering of the starling—he ignored the corpse she was copying—was a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

“Who did this?” he asked again.

“I did,” Lucrezia said, in a croaking voice. Please, she was thinking, please. Don’t ask about the blood. Don’t look at me. She would guess that a man like Vitelli could see the truth written on someone’s skin.

But perhaps not. He was staring at her now with an expression of puzzlement.

“You?” Vitelli said. “No. I think not. Was it your tutor? He did this and you finished it, yes?”

Lucrezia, confused, nodded. Then she shook her head.

“It is Lucrezia’s,” Sofia said, stepping towards them and putting a hand on her shoulder. “She likes to make these tiny little paintings on bits of wood. She does them all the time. There are boxes and boxes of them in the cupboard.”

Vitelli looked at Lucrezia for a long moment. His eyes travelled from her hair, divided down the centre, to her temples, to her eyes, cheeks, neck, arms, hands. Lucrezia quailed, trembling. She felt like a floor being swept by a brush, again and again.