The Marriage Portrait(47)

He nods, once, and says: “Good.”

And then he moves closer again, so close that she can feel his leg against her hip, beneath the bedsheets. And the thought that Lucrezia has been holding at bay ever since he entered the room now opens its startling petals in her head.

He means to take her, here and now. He means to perform upon her the act she has been dreading, with all her being, ever since that visit by Vitelli when she painted the starling. He has been waiting for her to wake. He means it to happen now.

Lucrezia tries to swallow but her throat is arid and parched. When did she last take water? Last night, was it? When they stopped at the base of the mountains? That was hours and hours ago—too many to count.

He is talking now, about how he has come to wish her a good morning, how he has been walking out with his steward and then he had a bout of fencing with his friend Leonello, who accompanied him from court earlier—she will meet him, perhaps at dinner. He is most desirous of being presented to her.

Desirous. The word seems to hit her like hailstones. So close is it to desire, which of course describes what men feel for women, for the act of marriage; it is sanctified by the Church, within wedlock, otherwise it is a grave sin; and she has seen it in the faces of men, at court, at feasts, as they watched the swaying figures of women when they passed by. She is familiar with that expression: it is half dreamy, half determined, wholly distracted, yet focused and single-minded at the same time, the eyes at half-mast, the mouth open, as if tasting something delicious. And here it is now on the face of this man. Her husband. Alfonso. Who numbers her among those who love him.

Desirous, she thinks feverishly, must share the same etymological root as the word—

“Your hair,” he murmurs, “is an incredible colour, one not often seen.” He reaches forward and takes a plait in his fingers, as though to find out if it is real. “Did you sleep well? Do you feel rested?”

Another question, she thinks. But easy to answer.

“I do,” she says.

“You have slept a long time.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“No, no, it is nothing to apologise for. I told them to leave you. I wanted you to rest, to recuperate. This villa was built by my great-grandfather, and it was his intention it be used for exactly that: pleasure and relaxation. A place away from the rigours and trials of court, for this family. To which you now belong.”

He pauses, apparently for her response. She has no idea what to say, but manages to nod and say, “Yes.”

He lifts the braided skein of hair, smoothing it, examining it, holding it close to his face, then stretching it out, as if to measure it. She feels a gentle tugging on its roots, and is forced to sit forward, leaning towards him.

“Was all…” she wonders how to phrase the question “…well at court?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, without taking his eyes off her hair, “naturally.”

“I was worried when…” She trails off, hoping that he will take up the subject without her having to explain, that he will reassure her, perhaps share with her the problems pertaining to his mother.

Instead, he looks at her, his head on one side. “Worried? Why?”

“Because you left…” she begins, but the expression on his face is one of bland perplexity, and she falters, wondering if perhaps what Emilia said about his mother was not true, that it might have been another matter entirely that called him away from her, and she is making an idiot of herself for asking “…you left and I…I was…”

He smiles at her, as if she hasn’t spoken at all. “You look…” he says, still holding the wedding plait taut, so that she cannot draw back if she wanted to “…quite different this morning.”

“I do?” She is shaking so much that she is worried he will see it, or feel it, travelling down the shafts of her hair.

He nods, not taking his eyes off her. “Yes. You were so pale yesterday, white as a little dove. But now, here, you look rosy and beautiful. Like an angel. With all this glorious hair. I had no idea how long it would be. How glad I am, now, that I designated this room as your chamber.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, and her voice sounds hoarse.

“Angels above,” he points upwards with his free hand, to the ceiling frescos, “and an angel below.” The hand swoops down, landing on her cheek. He cups her face, angling it up towards him. She presses her jaw together, firmly, to stop her teeth chattering. She has never been so close to a man: not the priest, not her cousins, not any male servant. No man has ever been permitted to touch her. The scent of him—the sweat from fencing, the odours of the fields and forest, where he walked this morning—floods her nasal passages, filling her face. The hand against her cheek is hard, unyielding, its heat pressing into her bones.

She waits there, in the bed, clutching the sheet to her chest. From the doorway, Neptune seems to stare down on them, impassive, his trident dripping saltwater.

“We shall have to have you painted, one day soon,” he mutters; she feels the words leave his lips and land on her cheeks as tiny explosions of air. “How the court artists will fight over the task. They will all want to do it. The very paint shall adore you.” He surveys her brow, her eyes, her chin. “A portrait…or perhaps a classical scene. Hmm.” He seems to be conversing with himself so Lucrezia makes no reply.