The Marriage Portrait(28)

Cosimo signed his name and, pushing a stick of sealing wax to a flame, allowed the wax to bleed on to the document, then pressed his signet ring to the scalding circle of red, thereby sanctioning the marriage between his fifth child and the representative of an ancient imperial family.

Not long after this, an emissary arrived from Ferrara, bearing missives for the Lady Lucrezia in the region of Florence.

They were borne from the palazzo gates, to the offices of Cosimo, where the contents underwent an initial inspection, to Eleonora’s salon, where first the Grand Duchess and then all her ladies examined them, and then to the chamber that was now Lucrezia’s, a high-ceilinged square room tucked behind the chapel.

Seated at a table by the fireplace, Lucrezia took the papers from the servant and put them on her desk, where she regarded them with narrow eyes. She was at this time still maintaining to everyone that she did not want to marry the Duke’s son, she would not be a substitute for her sister, but she was nevertheless aware that the machinery of the betrothal had been grinding inexorably on. Her parents and their entire staff seemed to have tacitly agreed to ignore her protests, continuing with plans for the wedding, discussing recipes for the various feasts, debating whether the great hall should be given new wall hangings, if they should serve only Tuscan wines at the dinners, which musicians should be allowed to play from the gallery and which from the floor, engaging seamstresses to make wedding clothes for the whole family. And now this: a letter from the son and heir himself.

She slid a fingernail beneath the seal to lift it, noticing, with only a minor pulse of surprise, that it had already been broken. Of course. Her parents would both have read it before it was brought to her. The letter was folded into quarters, like a book, and when Lucrezia smoothed it flat against the table surface, she saw that a confident looping script covered the whole sheet. It opened with the words My dear Lucrezia.

A sudden heat broke out on her face. It was hard to identify what was more startling—the possessive “my” or the disturbing tenderness of “dear,” or indeed the sight of her own name in his writing. No one had ever addressed her like that. She was somebody’s “dear,” somebody’s Lucrezia: the three words seemed to snake themselves around her, and she saw herself, just for a moment, encircled by a pair of arms, her body held inside an embrace.

Her eyes read it again—My dear Lucrezia—then passed on to the words that followed: May I address you thus? It is what you are and will be to me.

The paper was trembling in her fingers so she laid it flat upon her lap, where the fabric of her skirt gave it a steady resting place, but she was still unable to prevent her gaze from skittering over the page, darting from one random word to another. Cherish, her eyes told her, fervently, anticipation, fruitful, fight for the King, pray, true.

Still gripping the edges of the letter, she forced herself to follow the lines, one after another. He was, the writing went on to say, filled with great joy that their marriage would soon take place. What a happy day that would be. He and his family and, indeed, the entire court were greatly anticipating this event. He was sad, however, to be leaving that very week for France: he had promised to fight for King Henri. He would think of her, his Lucrezia, every day while he was in that far land. He asked her to pray for him, her future husband, and for his safe return. Might she spare the time to write some lines to him? Please would she tell him about her days and pastimes? He would cherish her letters and fervently hoped that their marriage would be fruitful and happy. He remained her loving and true fiancé, Alfonso.

Her immediate desire was to write to him saying that she regretted she could not marry him and that she hoped he understood. She knew, though, that there was no hope of such a message getting through to him. Her father, his secretaries and assistants would intercept it, and her mother would punish her for writing it.

She would have to send some form of reply, however. That was the correct course of action. A man wrote to a woman—she would not use the term “fiancée,” she could not attach that word to herself—and the woman wrote back. But what could Lucrezia say in these letters? That she walked about the mezzanine? That she spent hours staring out at the piazza? That she practised her lute and worked on a Greek translation, then searched for something to paint? What could she possibly write that might catch the interest of a man like the future Duke of Ferrara?

At the sound of a cough, Lucrezia looked up. The servant who brought the letter was still standing by the door. She had forgotten she was there.

“Yes?” Lucrezia said, trying to comport herself like a woman who was used to receiving letters from the man to whom she was betrothed (fervently, fruitfully, happily).

“If you please,” the servant whispered, “Her Ladyship your mother said to tell you that the emissary is waiting on your reply.”

“Oh,” Lucrezia said. Waiting? Was she meant to write a reply this minute? She had no idea such a thing would be required of her so quickly. What to say? How to find the words?

She turned to her desk. It was covered with sextants, an astrological map, a telescope pushed inside itself, several reed pens that she had been cutting, a penknife, a bowl encrusted with a mixture of linseed oil and smears of powdered verdigris. She pushed these items to the left, then the right, searching for something—anything—she might write on or with, a clean sheet of paper. She couldn’t write to a man about to leave for war on a parchment stained with paint mixes or punctured by compasses. Her mother would need to see this letter, and if Lucrezia didn’t present something well worded and perfect and—