The Marriage Portrait(76)
Jacopo is the one to break it. Alfonso shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other; the apprentice seems to snap to attention, as if remembering why he is there, and he bends his head once more over his paper, bringing his pencil towards it to make an uncertain mark somewhere near the top. His hand, Lucrezia observes, is trembling, ever so slightly, as if someone stands behind him with their fingers on his elbow, lightly shaking it back and forth.
Lucrezia swivels away, towards the window, where she can see, in the slice of sky above the villa’s roofs, a gathering of dark anvil-shaped clouds.
* * *
The weather breaks that night, cracking open, the heavens unleashing a storm. Lucrezia watches at her chamber window as the mountains appear through the darkness, illuminated by a flash of lightning, then vanish, appear, then vanish—a series of rocky peaks made visible by a flickering celestial torch flame. The thunder comes a few seconds later, rumbling, like a large stone rolling towards her.
Outside the chamber, the villa dogs are howling from wherever they have been shut; servants are running to and fro, seizing whatever furniture has been left outside; the trees are thrashing back and forth.
The apprentices, she knows, were due to leave this evening; they were meant to pack up their materials and ride back to the city. They will not go now. She and Alfonso were to leave not long after them, but the sky and the wind have decided otherwise; they have different plans for them all.
As if sensing her thoughts, the storm responds, tightening its grip on the valley, asserting its dominance, unleashing its next round of weaponry. She hears the rain begin before she sees it, a percussive tapping on the roof tiles, a wet sloughing in the courtyard, a rushing and a gurgling in the gutters. The delizia is engulfed by it, all its walls and roof drenched and streaming; within seconds, the leaves of the trees are sluiced clean of their summer dust.
The sky splits open again over the mountains, two forks of lightning branding themselves into the scene—bright river deltas—the valley flashing in and out of visibility. The stupefying heat of the past few weeks has retreated somewhere to hide, to lick its wounds. Raindrops fall, large as coins, through the open window and on to Lucrezia’s face and neck. She holds out her hands, palms upwards, wanting them to land there, so that she may feel this wildness, capture something of the storm’s spirit.
Behind her, Emilia is packing Lucrezia’s possessions into trunks and bags. Lucrezia can hear her footsteps, pattering over the floor, and the shushing sound of silk gowns being laid inside boxes.
She knows Alfonso has arrived when she hears Emilia murmur a greeting. She turns towards him, to say something about the incredible storm, hoping that he will stand at the window with her, looking out.
“Whatever are you doing,” he says, “at the open window like that? Shut it, please.”
For a moment, she believes he is being playful, that his tone is only mock-angry. Her father often addresses her mother thus, when Eleonora is teasing him or behaving in a skittish fashion, Cosimo’s words severe but his eyes resting on Eleonora with affection and indulgence. So Lucrezia smiles at Alfonso.
“Look at this storm!” she says, delighted, opening the window even wider so that he may see. “It’s so dramatic. Do you see how the sky has gone dark and—”
He bears down upon her, reaches out and seizes her wrists. “I told you,” he murmurs, “to shut the window, and when I ask something of you, I expect you to do it. Without delay. Without hesitation. Do you understand me?”
His grip is tight, unyielding, and only then does she realise, with a sickening drop in her stomach, that he is in earnest, that she has angered him. Without slackening his hold on her, he reaches behind her to close the window with a bang.
“People die of less,” he is saying. “Are you mad? You’re frozen. And soaked through.” He snaps his fingers towards Emilia. “Bring something to dry your mistress. Quickly, please.”
He pulls her away from the window and his touch is far from gentle, his hand closed about her upper arm like a manacle, talking about cold and storms and chills, all the while untying the ribbons on her shift. He snatches the cloth Emilia brings and rubs it roughly over her brow, her cheeks, her now-bare shoulders. When he strips off her shift, she goes to cover herself with her arms, but he will not permit this.
“Stand still,” he commands, “until you are dry.”
Emilia steps towards her, so close that Lucrezia can feel the maid’s breath on her exposed neck. It is all she can do to stop herself reaching out and grasping the girl’s hand for comfort. Emilia carefully places Lucrezia’s zimarra across her shoulders, then steps away again.
“I’m sorry,” Lucrezia gabbles, sliding her arms into the sleeves and fastening the cord. His behaviour is not something she has witnessed before—it is alien and frightening. She is sure her father has never seized her mother by the arm and dragged her across a room, castigating her all the way. Lucrezia has never seen Cosimo touch Eleonora with anything other than tenderness and reverence. It is suddenly apparent to Lucrezia, as if the words are being written on the air before her, that Alfonso’s feelings for her resemble in no way her father’s for her mother. Lucrezia had thought her wedding might mean love and affection, an unbreakable bond, a parity, a partnership; she had hoped it would bring her joy and respect. But she suddenly fears, in the fury and contempt of Alfonso’s grip on her arm, that her marriage will be something very different.