The Marriage Portrait(82)

“My mother,” Alfonso enunciates these words clearly, and Lucrezia realises with a jolt that he is addressing her, “is now in France, with our sister Anna. As I told you. So I struggle to comprehend why, my darling,” he says, swirling the wine around in its vessel, “you would ask about them.”

Lucrezia opens her mouth to say, You never told me, you never told me anything. I assumed they would be here in Ferrara. You said that everything had been resolved to your satisfaction. But she closes it again. Elisabetta has seen this: she is looking at Lucrezia closely, sympathetically.

“Let us not talk of sad matters,” Elisabetta declares, clapping her hands. “We must plan a celebration of your arrival, Lucrezia. I shall arrange a festa, with music and plays, to welcome you—we shall have the singers Alfonso likes so much, the ones he ordered from Rome. Not tonight, however,” she adds hastily. “You must be tired from your journey. May we steal her away, Alfonso? Nunciata and I will take her to her chambers. I’m sure you would like to rest and unpack. We will have lots of time for conversation in the weeks to come. First, come with us and see your rooms. They are all prepared. I saw to it myself.”

“Thank you,” Lucrezia says. And when she sees the rooms, she says thank you again. Thank you, thank you. There is a private salon, which is perfectly square, occupying the highest floor of one of the castello towers; it has thick wall hangings, a writing desk, plush chairs, a huge fireplace, and two windows with cushioned seats. And through a door there is a smaller chamber, with a curtained bed, a mirror, cupboards and chests for her clothes. Already she can see servants placing her trunks and boxes in orderly piles. Emilia is moving among the luggage, counting off items on her fingers.

Nunciata struggles into the tower room, puffing, and lowers herself on to a chair, complaining about how fast they went, how she had forgotten the distance. The spaniel she puts on the floor, whereupon it disappears under the wide spread of her skirts.

“I hope you will be comfortable here,” Elisabetta says, while her sister, who is fanning herself, is still complaining about the stairs. “I arranged these rooms myself, but you must say if there is anything not to your liking or—”

“Oh, no,” Lucrezia bursts out. “It is all perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing. They are beautiful rooms. You have both been so kind.”

“Not at all.” Elisabetta seats herself on one of the velvet settles. “It was my pleasure. We were so happy when Alfonso got married. Weren’t we, Nuncià?”

Nunciata grunts, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief.

“It was everything my sisters and I hoped for. And…” Elisabetta pauses to adjust her cuff “…also my mother. I only wish she…could have been in attendance.”

Lucrezia sits down next to her; she wants so badly to ask about the mother, why she left, what Alfonso said, do Elisabetta and Nunciata miss her, do they think she will come back, and what of Anna, their eldest sister, will she marry and produce an heir, and will that heir want Alfonso’s title, castello and lands, and does this now mean that all hope for Alfonso’s line is pinned on her, has the pressure for her to produce a child increased tenfold, that she blurts out instead: “You are not married?”

Elisabetta turns her dark eyes on her.

“Forgive me,” Lucrezia says, “I speak out of—”

“Nothing to forgive,” Elisabetta says, in a light tone. “No, I am not. And neither is Nuncià. I cannot speak for her but I have yet to receive an offer that tempts me.”

“Into matrimony,” Nunciata murmurs mockingly, “that is. For you are tempted by other types of offers, are you not, Elisa?”

“Nuncià, please.” Elisabetta’s colour is high, her cheeks burning. For the first time, she has lost her poise, her veneer of calm.

“One in particular,” her sister continues, in a malicious whisper.

Elisabetta turns towards Lucrezia and says, through a set mouth, “My sister likes to tease.”

“I have sisters, too,” Lucrezia says, “so I know how it is.” Then she corrects herself confusedly. “A sister, I mean. I had two but…”

Elisabetta reaches out and covers Lucrezia’s hand with her own. For a moment, the three of them—the bride, the two sisters-in-law—sit in silence, a triangular shape inside the square of the room.

Then Elisabetta, with refined skill, removes her hand to gesture at the window, where the blue Ferrara sky is already darkening. “It is getting late. We will leave you. Nuncià, shall we?”

Nunciata, putting away her handkerchief, nods, but neither gets to her feet. Lucrezia shifts inside her dress. The spaniel pokes its face—snub nose and bulging eyes—out of Nunciata’s skirt to stare fixedly at Lucrezia.

“Will you take supper here in your rooms tonight?” Elisabetta enquires. “We can order it to be brought.”

“I’m sure she is capable of ordering her own meals,” Nunciata snaps. “Such things were possible in Florence, were they not?”

Lucrezia looks from one sister to the other. What would be the correct reply? She does not understand what has passed between the two of them, but she is aware that Nunciata has scored some acrimonious triumph or other over the beautiful Elisabetta, who is discomposed and flushed. Lucrezia knows enough about siblings to be aware that when Elisabetta and Nunciata leave this room, bitter words and accusations and justifications, perhaps reaching back over their shared lifetime, will be exchanged and aired.