The Marriage Portrait(60)

There is one day when they have just begun their meal, and Alfonso is talking about seeing a family of deer that morning, saying that perhaps he will take her to the spot so that she, too, can see them, and she is just about to answer him but a secretary appears at the open window, rapping gently on the wood. Alfonso rises, mid-sentence, and leaves. Lucrezia is alone, then, with only the vases of flowers for company, an image in her head of her and Alfonso riding together through the woods. She eats a little food, she adjusts the arrangement of lace around her collar, and watches as the servants come in and out to clear plates and present new ones. Before long, there is so much food on the table, far more than she could ever eat, and the sight of yet more servants and more dishes arriving makes her laugh, behind her hand at first and then more overtly. The servants grin back at her, delighted with the joke of so much food, pleased to see their little duchess so happy. When Alfonso returns, much later, she is surrounded by an opulent, uneaten banquet, and she turns to him gaily, saying: “I hope you’ve worked up an appetite in your office because, look, can you believe—”

She stops. His face is strained and oddly haggard. He sits down and picks up his napkin as if it weighs heavily in his hand.

Two servants enter through the door, with a playful cry—“Look now, Your Highness!”—bearing still more food to entertain the Duchess. On seeing their master’s demeanour, however, they fall silent, leave the dishes and flit away.

Alfonso, his head lowered, takes a mouthful of ham and chews it rapidly, shifting himself in his chair.

“That must be quite cold by now,” Lucrezia murmurs, and she is recalling the soothing, lulling way her mother speaks to her father when he is preoccupied by problems in his province—she can bring off these tones, can’t she? “Let me call and ask them to warm it for you, so that—”

“No need,” he answers, removing a piece of gristle from between his teeth and laying it on the rim of his plate.

She casts her gaze around the room, seeking a topic to divert him. That is what good wives do: take their husband’s minds off whatever troubles are besieging them. How, though, should she do this? Her mother would sometimes stroke her father’s brow or tweak his beard. Lucrezia does not dare try this with him.

“My apologies,” he says suddenly, making her jump, “for leaving you so long at the table.”

“Oh,” she says, “it’s of no consequence. You have a great deal on your mind. I know that.” She ventures to put out her hand and brush the backs of his fingers. “It is only to be expected. My father is exactly the same, with so many demands on his time and attention, always being called away exactly like that. I am only sorry you must work so hard.”

He is watching the action of her hand, stroking his, as if observing an animal. Then he looks at her, his eyes travelling all over her face, seeming to check that she means what she is saying.

“Is there…” she dares to push her fingers between his “…can you say…did that man bring bad news? I would like to know about what is happening, if you are willing to tell me. Perhaps I can help you in some way or—”

He lets out a short exhalation that sounds almost like a laugh. “You wish to help me?”

She draws back. She would like to take her hand from his, but wills herself to let it remain.

“Yes,” she says, with dignity, “of course.”

He picks up his cup, smiling wryly, and takes a long sip of wine.

“If there is something at court,” she continues, “or some family matter that is causing you concern, maybe I could…”

He puts down his cup with a bang. The look on his face—flaring, suspicious—causes the words to shrivel in her mouth.

“What do you know of my family?” he asks, low and deliberate. “Or of my court?”

“Nothing.”

“What have you heard? What have you been told?”

“As I said—nothing.”

He leans forward. The hand beneath hers turns upwards and imprisons her fingers in a strong, cool grasp.

“Your father? He has told you something?”

She shakes her head.

“Or someone else in Florence? Your mother?”

“No.”

“Someone here?”

She sees, for a moment, a man on a path, his horse behind him, and three hares strung from a saddle. She could not say how but she knows it would be a bad idea to disclose what Baldassare has told her.

“No,” she says again.

He remains motionless, and silent, for several moments, still gripping her hand, still leaning towards her. She keeps her gaze on his, steady and unwavering, but inside she is striving to empty her mind, to keep it blank as parchment; she is letting all she knows drain away. She will not admit to any knowledge, the conversation with Baldassare about Alfonso’s sisters wanting to leave for France, or the instruction she received from her father, from Vitelli, about the Ferrara court and how it has been riven with dissent since the old Duke’s death, about the problems Alfonso is facing with his widowed mother, the rumours of her insurrection and disruption to his rule, the struggle he is having in getting the province to obey him. She knows none of this; she has heard nothing; she has forgotten it; she never knew it. She presents to her husband a face that is pleasant and inexperienced. She is his young, guileless wife who is entirely ignorant about the governance of Ferrara.