The Marriage Portrait(29)

The servant was stepping into her sightline, placing two items on the very edge of the table. Lucrezia wanted to say, Don’t put anything else there, can’t you see I’m trying to clear space, but the servant was speaking again: “The emissary brought these, if you please. For you, Your Ladyship.”

Lucrezia looked up from her search, and regarded the parcels: one was small, covered in cloth and bound tightly with twine; the other was flat and packed with linen. She reached out a hand to the smaller parcel, about to pick apart the knot and slide off the wrappings, when she found herself examining the dimensions of the other. Long and rectangular, with sharp corners. Her hand wavered, moved away from the smaller parcel towards the larger. She hooked a finger into the cord tied around it and drew it across the desk.

She could guess what this one would be: a portrait of Alfonso. She would be able to look at his face, to see into his eyes.

Where was her penknife? Where was it? She opened her desk box, riffled through quills and ink pots. She turned to the serving girl. “Have you a knife?” she asked. “Or scissors?”

The girl stared at her, then shook her head.

Lucrezia turned back to her desk and, seizing a pair of compasses, she picked at the knot with its spiked end. The third time she yanked, she felt a sliding, a give. She tossed aside the instrument and disentangled the knot, stripped away the twine, the coverings. She ripped away cover after cover, layers of straw and linen padding, and then she was rewarded with the back of a wooden board. Yes, she had been right: it would be a betrothal portrait. Let’s see you, then, was what she was thinking as she turned it over.

But she was entirely mistaken. What he had sent in this parcel utterly confounded her. Instead of the face she was expecting, half remembered from a moment at the top of the tower, there was something else. There, on the tavola, bead-bright eyes turned inquisitively towards her, a tail curled about its feet, one front paw raised, was a creature. She had never seen anything like it before. It was the colour of wood, with a sleek pelt and clawed feet. Its muzzle was narrow, with a pinkish-brown nose, a milk-white underside, and delicate sprays of whiskers.

It was like an otter, or a mink, or a tiny bear: it was all yet none of these. She let out a small, involuntary noise of surprise. It was shocking that such a man would send a gift so improbable, so unconventional. Betrothal gifts were only ever portraits or jewels, she knew. And yet her husband-to-be had sent this. She was filled, instantly, from her feet to her head, with absolute and uncomplicated love for the animal in the painting. She gripped her hands together under her chin, unable to withstand the joy of it.

The serving girl, who had, unnoticed by Lucrezia, stepped forward to pick up the discarded linen and string, handed her a piece of folded paper that had fallen from the padding.

Lucrezia took it, distractedly, and unfolded it.

Another letter, shorter this time:

    My dearest,

I am sending this to you as I recall that you have a certain affinity with beasts, and I am told that you are fond of painting.

This is a work I have always loved—it has hung in my rooms since I was a boy, and now I would like you to have it. It is a portrait of a stone marten, or la faina, as it is called here, an attractive yet shy animal which makes its home in the forests of Ferrara. We will see many of its kind when we ride out together.

They are wild, of course, but perhaps you will accept this one, tamed for you here in oils? I hope you will remember me and our betrothal when you look upon it.

Ever your loving,

Alfonso



Lucrezia placed the letter on the table. She stretched out and ran a tentative finger along the creature’s painted spine, feeling the contours and ripples of the oil and pigments—a series of secret messages from whoever had created it. A kit from the forest, in the place of a dull portrait of a husband-to-be. What would her mother say? And her father? They would greatly disapprove. Lucrezia put a hand over her mouth to stop her laughter.

“La faina,” she whispered, tasting the word, the two incarnations of the a vowel, the friction of the f. It was her first word of Ferrarese. The stone marten—woodland sprite, tree-dweller, forest spirit—gazed back at her with impish eyes.

Lucrezia touched the darker furze of the tail, the pearled spikes of the claws. She was taken aback to feel the thickness of the paint, its luxuriant, textured layers, how the oils stood proud of the tavola. It was at once touching and unnerving that someone had known or divined that this was the way to her heart. How had he intuited so much about her from one very brief meeting, years ago?

With a sudden bang, the door was pushed unceremoniously open, and Isabella swept into the room. Dangling from her wrist was a golden cage containing her canary, a dainty creature that, if left in a sunbeam, would raise its head and pour forth bright surges of notes from its sharp little beak. Isabella liked to walk about the palazzo with it, so that the bird got fresh air.

“I hear,” she said, setting down the cage, “that presents have arrived from Ferrara. Let’s see.”

Lucrezia lifted the painting from the desk, her eyes radiant. “Look,” she said, “you’ll never guess—”

“Is it a portrait? Show me,” Isabella said, advancing across the chamber on noisily heeled shoes. Peering over Lucrezia’s shoulder, she let out a small shriek. “My God,” she said, recoiling, “what is that?”