The Marriage Portrait(64)

“Emilia, how terrible. I—”

Emilia gives a sad smile. “Better that it was me and not you.”

“Better that it had been neither of us.”

“But if it had to be one of us, it was better that it was me who was disfigured.”

Both girls are silent for a moment. Lucrezia tries to think of something to say, to parry this sentiment, and she is searching her memory for any traces of the incident—the hide-and-seek, the clang of a pot falling to the ground, the scorch and steam of boiling water.

Emilia, however, is moving on.

“Then,” she continues, “when you were older, when you were walking and talking already, Sofia used to smuggle you down to the kitchens.”

“Smuggle me? Why?”

“This was after you were sent back to the nursery. Sometimes you would cry and cry, and nobody could quiet you, and the only thing that would soothe you was…” Emilia looks stricken. “This is not to disrespect your mother, Her Grace, you understand, I mean no offence, madam—”

“I am not offended. Go on. Tell me about Sofia and the smuggling.”

“Well, she used to bring you down to the kitchens. You would be crying and crying, and then when you saw my mother, you would stop and hold out your arms, with a big smile, your eyes still streaming with tears. Everyone would laugh. I used to take you under the kitchen table—my mother gave us pots and spoons to play with, and we used to make messes with flour, and sometimes—”

This extraordinary speech is interrupted by the door opening once more—it bangs back against the wall, revealing Alfonso, standing there, his face shadowed by a soft cap.

“Is all ready?” he asks.

Emilia starts, drops the brush, bends to retrieve it, with her head bowed.

“Very nearly, Your Highness.”

“I am just coming,” Lucrezia says, moving her eyes towards him, so that Emilia may finish plaiting her hair.

“I have a surprise for you,” he murmurs, and she can hear that he is smiling. “Come, quick as you can.”

Alfonso turns and strides off down the corridor.

Emilia leans towards her. “I have heard that there is trouble at court,” she whispers.

“In Florence?”

“No, madam. Ferrara.”

Lucrezia turns in her seat. “What trouble? What have you heard?”

Emilia glances through the open door, as if to be sure the Duke isn’t lurking there. “A servant who came with the emissary from Ferrara this morning told one of the grooms, who told a housemaid, who told me, that Her Highness, the Duke’s mother, is at this very moment secretly preparing to leave the Ferrara court. She means to go before His Grace, the Duke, finds out but, of course, he has people at court who are watching her and one of them—”

“Why would she do that? Alfonso told me she would not be leaving for France until he and I had arrived to pay our respects, and then, in time—”

“No. It turns out she’s been planning this for a while, ever since His Grace last went to court. Remember when he left in the middle of our journey? Apparently, he and his mother had a terrible row, and ever since she has been determined to go. Last night, the informant said, she ordered the horses and carriages be made ready for tomorrow so that—”

“Poor Alfonso,” Lucrezia exclaims. “I must…” She starts to stand up, but then sinks back into her chair. What must she do? What can she say, when he has made it clear that he doesn’t like her to know of these things? “I should…”

“I heard that the Pope himself,” Emilia whispers, awed, “ordered her exile, but His Grace, the Duke, wants it to be known that his mother will leave when it pleases him.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But now it seems that her daughters are intending to leave, too, and so—”

“She means to take Alfonso’s sisters with her?” Lucrezia interrupts. “He won’t like that. He’ll never allow it and—”

“Why not? Why can’t the sisters go with their mother, if they—”

Lucrezia shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. Go on. Tell me what else you know.”

Emilia shrugs. “I heard the argument between the Duke and his mother is about religion. Which is passing strange but then the old Duchess, being French, may be—”

“She is a Protestant,” Lucrezia says, “and was meant to have given it up but it seems…”

Emilia crosses herself, quickly, efficiently, as if to protect herself from such heresy. “Whatever she is, the Duke was very unhappy when the emissary told him all this. The servant who was in the next room said that he heard the Duke throw something at the wall and say that he’d have his mother and his sisters captured and whipped if they disobeyed him like this. Can you imagine? A man’s mother—”

“He would never have said that,” Lucrezia cuts in. “The servant must have misheard. Alfonso was perhaps speaking of a courtier, or…or a valet. His mother is Renée de France. She is a duchess in her own right. He would never, with a noblewoman…”

“Yes, madam.” Emilia lowers her head. “I’m sure you are right.”

Lucrezia stands up abruptly. Her scalp feels strained where the pins have been inserted at the temples; her camiciotto is pinching under the arms. The day, which had begun so well, seems suddenly ominous and pitted with danger.