The Marriage Portrait(40)
Lucrezia grips the crucifix at the end of the rosary, its corners digging into her palms, and winds the shawl about her hands. The air here in this carriage, under the archway, is dank and cool.
She has not been able to bid farewell to Sofia: there has not been a moment for her to slip away to the nursery. She does not know how this is possible. She cannot leave without laying eyes on Sofia, without saying goodbye: it cannot be. There was a gap of time in her chamber, when she’d thought of requesting for Sofia to be brought to her, but first there was the bewildering experience of her father saying goodbye, and leaving the room, as if he might see her again tomorrow, and then her mother directing the servants in the correct way to remove and store the wedding dress: Like this, no, not like that, careful, don’t, you’ll tear it, lift it over her head, over, I said, are you listening to me? And then Lucrezia was out of the blue-and-gold dress and the relief was like a burst of sunshine after rain. Her ribcage moving in and out, unimpeded, her arms so light-feeling. Isabella was there for a while, yawning, a sweetmeat in her hand, saying something to their mother about one of the ladies at the dance, how her shoes were so ugly, and do you think her husband knows? Then Isabella said, Good luck, Lucrè, and left, still yawning. And instead of being permitted to go to bed, like Isabella, Lucrezia was being laced into another dress, one she likes, in a light lavender-grey, and her mother was giving her instructions: always listen to Alfonso when he talks, always conduct herself with piety and obedience, be careful of consorting with unsuitable people, especially all the artists and composers and sculptors and poets, for it is said that the Ferrara court is full of people of that ilk; she must take care not to form any unseemly attachments; she must be careful with her appearance, always attire herself in a manner appropriate to her station, to eat enough but not too much, to keep up her music, be courteous and respectful to Alfonso’s mother and sisters, always smile and stand when Alfonso enters a room.
Yes, Mamma, Lucrezia had said. Yes, Mamma, yes.
And her mother kissed her, and they were bidding each other goodbye, and she was being escorted down the stairs and all she could think was that she hadn’t yet taken her leave of Sofia, that she couldn’t drive away without seeing the old nurse: what would Sofia think if Lucrezia left for Ferrara without bidding her farewell? Would she think that she didn’t matter to Lucrezia any more, that she had forgotten her, that she had shed her as a dog discards a picked-clean bone?
Lucrezia said to the courtiers helping her down the stairs: I need to go back, I need to go to the nursery. But the courtiers shook their heads or pretended not to hear her. I need to see Sofia, Lucrezia said, in what she thought was a clear voice. But here was the end of the staircase and here was the first courtyard with the dolphin spouting water and here was the second, with the door to the carriage, wide open, ready to receive her.
There was no option. She saw this. She would not be allowed to turn back, to climb to the nursery, not even for a moment.
She put her foot on the carriage step, pulling her skirts out of the way, turning her head, as if to seek an opportunity or an excuse to run upstairs, and some figures appeared in the courtyard, and it wasn’t her old nurse, it was the groomsmen, who started forward and, saying that she mustn’t be exposed to the night air, secured the doors behind her, locking her inside.
Lucrezia leans forward and tries the handle; perhaps she will ask for leave to go back up the stairs—she could say she has forgotten something or left a bag behind—but without warning, the door is pulled open from the other side, and Lucrezia is yanked off the seat, on to the floor.
“Ah,” a voice exclaims, “the Duchess has fainted.”
A plinth of yellow light has fallen across the carriage floor, with the dark outline of a figure at its centre.
“No, no,” she says, struggling upright, her face hot with embarrassment, “I am well, I—”
“Bring a lantern, quickly.”
His tone, Lucrezia thinks, as a hand closes about her upper arm and another on her shoulder, is measured and authoritative. It is a voice that assumes—knows—it will be instantly obeyed. Her father, in the same situation, she suddenly sees, would have been shouting, his words pitched to fury. But Alfonso is unruffled, controlled.
She hears the rapid shuffling of servants doing his bidding: a lantern is brought, people crowd the doorway, she is lifted upright and shunted back against the cushions.
Alfonso, her husband of ten or eleven hours, kneels before her. He puts a palm to her forehead, he holds her wrist, as if to feel for a pulse; he will not let anyone else touch her, she sees. He holds them off with just his presence, his ducal demeanour. And all the while he speaks in his low voice: not so close, give her space, she is looking better already.
“I am quite well,” she tries to say, “I assure you. I was just trying the door handle when you—”
“Take this,” she hears Alfonso say, to an unseen servant, and he passes a bag out of the carriage. “Prepare, please, to depart immediately.”
The “please” intrigues her. Never has she heard this word fall from the lips of her father or her mother when speaking to their staff.
Alfonso is leaning close to her now, raising the lantern, and out of the darkness emerges his neck, the shirt open at the collar, then his throat and chin, then his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his large dark eyes, then the fall of his hair over his brow.