The Marriage Portrait(51)

Both men study her, stepping back to do so, their heads on one side, her husband’s face thoughtful, Leonello’s unfathomable, assessing.

He doesn’t like me, Lucrezia realises, with something akin to confusion, and she wonders why this is. He barely knows her—they have only just met. What about her could he have found to cause such instant hostility? What could she have done or lack in the eyes of this man?

“We should go,” Leonello murmurs to Alfonso. He raises the papers, as if to remind Alfonso of whatever the contents are.

“Indeed.”

Alfonso hastily kisses her hand once more, then turns, and together he and Leonello stride away, their shoe soles spitting gravel. And Lucrezia is left alone in the middle of the garden, the flowers undulating beneath a fleece of bees, the fountain still expressing itself in its indecipherable silver argot.



* * *





It begins with her lying on the bed. Such an ordinary thing to do but she is trying, as she holds herself there, not to cling with her fingers to the long cuffs of her shift, as he moves across the room with careful steps, carrying a book in one hand and a candle in the other. He is saying something about the weather feeling uncertain, about how they must fasten all the shutters tonight for it is getting windy.

It is late, very late; dinner has been served, a rabbit stew with griddled radicchio; she has rubbed her skin with mallow tincture; she has taken to the sheets, which smell of rosemary and lavender.

She knows what will happen. She thinks she knows. She has been told. She has grasped the mechanics of it, believes herself possessed of a sufficiently clear idea. She is fortunate, she tells herself, to have been united with a man who is considerate and kind, not to mention pleasing to the eye. Has he not promised that he will never hurt her? Not all girls are as lucky. And she knows herself to be possessed of a toughness, a resilience that will carry her through. She is not easily cowed, can withstand pain and discomfort and fear. She can get through this. She can. There will be a time, and soon, when it will be over. It must happen, it must be borne, and she can do it.

But she had not expected this: for him to walk up to the bed and remove his clothes, layer by terrifying layer, until he stands before her, unclothed and smiling. She tries not to laugh. She tries not to cry. She does not want to look, and yet she does, and yet she cannot. She had not expected him to lie down beside her, and then near her, and then nearer still. And she had not expected him to talk, to make conversation, to ask her questions, some of which are about her journey or foods or how she liked this fresco or that, which is her favourite, what music she prefers, what instrument is most pleasing to her ear, lute or viol, does she like madrigals, he has heard Florence is famous for its madrigals. Such ordinary topics to be discussing, such things that might be said in a salon or at dinner, and all the while his fingers are patient yet restless, touching filaments of her hair, brushing against her face, tracing the outline of her lips, as if they will gather information about her. She had never expected that.

There had been dogs at the palazzo, and cats. She had seen them in the act, the male preoccupied and evasive, often looking off to the side, the female beneath, face resigned. And Sofia had told her, as best she could. She had gestured outside Lucrezia’s gown, around the area of her navel, and performed a mime with her thumb sliding into her curled fist. She had given her a vial of ointment, stoppered with wax and string, and told her to apply it before he came to her, for the first few weeks. Her mother had pressed her palms together, as if in prayer, and made vague statements about “God’s will” and “a woman’s duty” and “part of marriage.” So she has a notion of what will occur next.

His calm surprises her, his matter-of-factness, his single-minded approach, and the time he takes.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, cupping her cheek in his palm, while lower down the bed she can feel his shin slide between her feet. “Don’t be frightened.”

“I’m not,” she whispers.

He smooths her brow with the pad of his thumb. “I shan’t hurt you,” he says, “I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

She has to believe him. What choice does she have? She is miles and miles and days away from her family. There is no one else here.

“You trust me?” he says again, taking her hand and placing it flat on his chest.

She has not yet touched him, not yet made acquaintance with his skin, with his unclothed form. The iron hardness of it startles her, the muscle and heat and bone of it, the animal rhythm of his heart.

“Of course,” she says, and she sees she has answered well because he smiles. He presses her hand to his chest and then, shockingly, he places his other hand on the corresponding part of her, the neckline of her shift, beneath which is the hollow between her breasts. It makes her flinch—she cannot help it—and he sees this but he does not take his hand away. Is it her imagination or does a flicker of sympathy pass over his face? She thinks so—she hopes so. It is his right, she knows, as her husband, to touch her wherever he wishes, and Sofia had warned her of it, but, still, it is a shock. But the fact that he sees her plight, and comprehends it, is reassuring. He will not hurt her, he has said. She has nothing to fear.