His Last Duchess

by Gabrielle Kimm

  “I…er…” He hesitated, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

  “What?”

  “I…wondered if you would care to wear the garnets in your portrait.”

  Lucrezia stifled a shudder. She would prefer to hang live coals around her neck. Those garnets had come to symbolize everything about her incomprehensible relationship with Alfonso that now bewildered, chilled and ultimately appalled her. She hated them. She weighed her words carefully before replying. “Perhaps,” she said, “they are something too…intimate to expose so openly to public view.”

  Alfonso blinked slowly, a frown like a knife-cut between his brows. “Perhaps you are right. I shall wait until I see the sketches on Wednesday.”

  As he spoke, there was an unfamiliar expression on his face that Lucrezia could not fathom. It seemed, more than anything else, like guilt.

  ***

  Alfonso clattered away from the Castello just before noon. Lucrezia stood in the silk-hung antechamber overlooking the central cortile and watched him leave. There would be three days before his return, he had said, and, as she left the room and hurried down towards the entrance hall, her heart began thumping up under her ribs.

  “Lucrezia, cara?”

  She turned sharply as a door opened and Giulietta stepped out into the corridor from the little painted chapel; Lucrezia fought to keep her frustration from showing in her face. She tried to smile.

  “You seem rushed, cara…” Giulietta said. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, nothing at all. Should anything be wrong?”

  Giulietta did not answer, but Lucrezia saw the old woman raise an eyebrow, and she felt her face burn.

  Oh, dear God, was it to be Giulietta who would wreck their plans, after so many days without detection and so close to their departure? The old woman had guessed that something was amiss: Lucrezia could see the suspicion etched across her face and she dreaded what might happen if they began to talk. Since babyhood, Giulietta had always been able to get from Lucrezia any information she sought, and she had been terrified of allowing a conversation to develop that might run away from her and prove catastrophic. It would be the end of everything, she had thought, so she had tried simply to avoid talking with Giulietta ever since her arrival from Mugello.

  But her strategy, it seemed, had not gone unnoticed.

  “I’ve seen so little of you in the days I have been in Ferrara,” Giulietta said. “We have had almost no chance to talk properly.”

  Lucrezia took Giulietta’s hand and began to walk with her away from the entrance hall. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I do seem to have been busier than usual. And now that Alfonso is away for a few days, and I have the portrait sittings to keep me busy, I fear that my unavoidable preoccupation is unlikely to change.”

  There was a long silence, during which all Lucrezia heard was the soft rustle of the stuff of their two skirts as they walked: Giulietta’s stiff black linen and her own russet damask.

  Giulietta drew in a short breath, as though about to speak, but she said nothing. Lucrezia imagined her nurse’s suspicions. Even if—God forbid!—she had deduced the truth, Lucrezia hoped desperately that—old-fashioned, upright, moral, implacably virtuous—she would find it all but impossible to broach the subject, so suffocating would surely be her sense of embarrassment.

  How could she have guessed, though? They had been so careful. Lucrezia did not think she and Jacomo had exchanged even a sentence in Giulietta’s presence.

  The silence was oppressive. She had to open some sort of conversation. Hoping her voice sounded more natural than it felt, she said, “Are your chambers comfortable enough, Giulietta?”

  The old woman threw her a sharp look, which Lucrezia met with a smile.

  “Yes, child,” Giulietta said. “Very comfortable. Perhaps a little chilly at night, though.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I’ll have someone bring you more blankets, and they can build up the fire for you.”

  Lucrezia could feel Giulietta’s gaze tugging at her, urging her to look around, but she feigned a sudden itch on the side of her wrist and stared instead at her hand. They walked on, up a long flight of steps, and neared Giulietta’s apartment.

  “Lucrezia…”

  There was pain in Giulietta’s voice, and rejection. “Please, cara, what is wrong?” Giulietta said. “I know there is something. I know you are not telling me something important.”

  This was how she had always done it, Lucrezia realised: this subtle, carefully timed concoction of intimacy and guilt. Giulietta was an expert. Determined to resist, she smiled and said, “Truly, Giulietta, there is nothing. I’ve not been sleeping very well, though, and I am a little tired. Perhaps that’s what is worrying you. Perhaps I look tired.”

  “Your parents are anxious,” Giulietta said.

  Lucrezia bit the inside of her cheek. A sudden, vivid image of her parents’ reaction to the news of her defection from the Castello pulsed through her mind. She imagined her mother’s face, tear-swollen and blotched, her father angrily pacing his bedchamber. She pictured Giulietta returned to them from Ferrara, her wrinkled old face in her hands, weeping out to them the sorry details of their beloved daughter’s adulterous elopement with a vagabond painter. To do as she and Jacomo planned would devastate them both. At that moment, Lucrezia truly believed it would hurt them less were they to hear of her death. She loved them both very much and the thought of the pain she would cause them was terrible. But she knew she would do it. She could not give Jacomo up. It was impossible even to think of staying at the Castello after he left.

  “They need not be worried,” Lucrezia said, opening the door to Giulietta’s bedchamber and standing back to let the old lady through. “When you go home, you can tell them I am quite well.”

  Giulietta cleared her throat. “They are concerned that…that you have not yet conceived. When the duke your husband came to Cafaggiolo, he…”

  Lucrezia stiffened. She moved across the room to the window, and said, with her back to Giulietta, “There is no hurrying such an event. What will happen will happen when God deems it appropriate.” She turned back into the room and smiled. “And now I must go and ascertain from Fra Pandolf exactly when he wishes me to sit for my portrait.” She kissed Giulietta’s soft-wrinkled cheek and left the room before the old lady had time to reply.

  ***

  Jacomo ran his hands over the newly firm plaster. The surface was cool and silken. “Well done, Tomaso, that’s perfect. It’ll be ready for us to start as soon as the sketches are done. I’ve roughed out the cartoon already, in fact—I might pounce it up this afternoon. I’m only going to need sketches for the details.”

  “Working from memory, then, are you?”

  Jacomo saw a smirk lifting the corners of his friend’s mouth. He frowned quizzically. Tomaso grinned and said, “I can’t quite make up my mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well—I can’t decide: is it just that you’re tired of being alive, Jacomo, or have you have lost your reason completely?”

  “What are you talking about?” Jacomo tried to look puzzled, but his heart was in his throat.

  Tomaso leaned towards him and lowered his voice. “The duchess,” he mouthed.

  “What about her?”

  Tomaso opened his mouth to reply, but a flurry of footsteps startled him and he stopped. Jacomo turned. Lucrezia was at the door to the entrance hall, bright-eyed and flushed as though she had been running. She saw Tomaso and checked, slowed her pace and began to walk towards the stairs.

  Tomaso raised an eyebrow. Jacomo ran his tongue over his lip. He held Tomaso’s gaze, then said, “Just give us a moment, will you? Please?”

  Tomaso shook his head, as though in disbelief. He shrugged and set off down the stairs, passing Lucrezia some two steps up from the bottom, his ill-fitting shoes flapping against the flagstoned floor.

  Lucrezia watched him go, then turned to Jacomo. “Does he know?” she said.

 
“He has his opinions, no more than that.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry. He wouldn’t say anything to anyone, even if he did know.”

  Lucrezia eyed the door through which Tomaso had just disappeared. After a moment she said, “Alfonso’s just left the Castello. He’ll be in Bologna for three days.”

  “Are you all right, Lucrezia? Has he—”

  “He has not been to my chambers since that night.”

  Jacomo laced his fingers through hers.

  “I want to see you,” Lucrezia said. “Tonight.”

  Jacomo nodded. It was well over a week since he had spent any more than a few seconds in Lucrezia’s company and his desire for her—no, his need of her—was becoming a physical ache. “That tower room,” he said.

  “It will have to be well after dark.”

  “Midnight. I’ll go up before—I’ll take blankets and candles, perhaps a bit of food. It might be cold.”

  “I expect we’ll find a way to keep warm.”

  Jacomo moved a little closer to her, and ran his fingers around the curve of her breast. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said.

  ***

  The moon was at its height and Lucrezia judged that it must be close to midnight. The castle had been still and silent for some time: the only sounds she had heard for at least an hour had been the soft creaks and sighs of the great building settling itself for the night.

  Since dark she had sat with Giovanni in her bedchamber, almost exploding with anticipation. Cross-legged on her bed, endlessly pleating one of its hangings between her fingers, she had talked with him for hours, telling him in ever greater detail about everything that had happened over the past few weeks—everything except tonight’s immediate plans—until Giovanni had yawned and stretched and told her that if she was even half as tired as he was, after his long afternoon’s riding, she ought to go to sleep. “But I’m going out again tomorrow. Would you like to come with me?” he had said.

  “I have my first portrait sitting.”

  “All day?” he had said, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

  The familiar gesture had sent a surge of panic through Lucrezia. She had scrambled across her bed to where he was sitting and hugged him fiercely, gripping as tightly as she could until he had laughed and, holding her upper arms, had prised her from him. He had said, “What is it? What’s happened, Crezzi?”

  “I promise I’ll make sure you know where we are.”

  “What?”

  “After we leave here. I promise I’ll make sure you know how to find us. Wherever we are.”

  The laughter had died in Giovanni’s face. “You’d better,” he said softly.

  “I couldn’t bear it if I lost you.”

  “You won’t.” There was a long pause. “That won’t ever happen.”

  ***

  Not having dared to carry a candle, Lucrezia, in her night shift and a wrap, climbed to the top of the Torre San Paolo in total darkness. Heart leaping, she paused at the top of the stairs to catch her breath. The door to the lobby opened, sending a yellow stripe of fluttering candlelight out across the dirty floor.

  Jacomo ran down the short flight of wooden steps and, wordlessly, started to kiss her. With a little squeak of longing, she reached up and cupped her hands around his head and then, her mouth on his, she turned and led him up the wooden steps into the tower room.

  Jacomo kicked the door shut behind him, then leaned against it, pulling Lucrezia close to him.

  After a moment, she broke away and said, “Oh, God, I’ve missed you so much.”

  “And I’ve missed you—missed this.” He kissed her again. “Come and see—I’ve brought some things up here for us.”

  In a corner of the room some half-dozen candles were burning. A few tawny blankets had been laid out, one on top of another, on the wooden floor, giving the room, Lucrezia thought, a strangely exotic, foreign air, like a painting she had once seen of the inside of a Bedouin tent. On the blankets were a bottle of red wine, a small basket—in which there appeared to be fruit, cheese and bread—a single pewter goblet and Jacomo’s leather bag.

  “How lovely,” she said.

  “I could only find one cup. We’ll have to share.”

  “Where did all this come from?”

  “The blankets are from my bed, and one of the girls in the kitchen found everything else for me.”

  At the look on Lucrezia’s face, Jacomo laughed. “Don’t worry—despite all my best efforts, I’ve only managed to seduce just this one of the ladies of the Castello so far…” He reached for the bottle, pulled out the cork and filled the goblet, then handed it to Lucrezia. “There you are,” he said.

  Lucrezia felt the dryness of the wine suck against the back of her teeth. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re in your night clothes,” Jacomo said. He took the glass from her and drank.

  “Yes.” She hesitated, hoping he would not think her foolish. “I—I thought I might be able to pretend to be sleepwalking if anyone were to find me on my way here or going back to my rooms.”

  Jacomo laughed again. “Sleepwalking all the way to the top of the Torre San Paolo? Come here!” He put the goblet down behind him, and placed the bottle and basket next to it. Shrugging off his doublet, he rolled it into a bundle and laid it at one end of the blankets, as a pillow. He began to kiss Lucrezia again, saying between kisses, “A sensible thought…very sensible…to say nothing of the fact…that…night clothes are considerably easier…to take off…”

  Aware this that was the other—predominant—reason she had chosen to wear them, Lucrezia’s face glowed warm.

  ***

  Lucrezia opened her eyes. She must, she realised, have fallen asleep, despite the discomfort of the inhospitable tower room. For a brief, sleep-sodden instant, she was bewildered to find she could not move, and then she realised that Jacomo had curled himself up behind her: his body was pressed against her back, and his legs were crooked up under her own. A sleep-heavy arm was draped across both of hers, pressing them to her chest; she could feel his breath on her neck through her hair.

  The candles had burned out and the silent room was in near darkness, lit only by the soft grey light of the moon. Lucrezia lay still for a moment, luxuriating in her lover’s embrace. Now she was awake, though, the wooden floor felt horribly hard; the blankets did little to cushion the uneven boards, and her shoulder and hip felt bruised and stiff. As she did not want to wake Jacomo, she tried to shift as surreptitiously as she could. Her efforts were in vain: almost at once a drowsy voice murmured, “Stop wriggling—I was asleep…”

  Lucrezia rolled over within Jacomo’s encircling arm and his eyes opened—a gleam of moonlight reflected in the whites. He smiled, held her more tightly and kissed her mouth.

  “Mmm…” Lucrezia said, detaching herself from the kiss. “I’m hungry now. Can we eat?”

  ***

  Jacomo sat up and reached for his leather bag, pulling from it a rather battered tinderbox. He opened this, and picked out a few scraps of baked linen, which he laid in the lid; then he sliced at the little flint with the steel. A sputter of sparks showered red in the darkness; he bent over it and blew gently; the linen smouldered, glowed and ignited. He added a few wisps of feathered woodshavings picked from the box, then, still blowing, felt behind him for a candle. He lit this and sat up, and the tower room walls wobbled in the yellow flame-light. Taking up another two candles and lighting them from the first flame, Jacomo dripped a little wax onto the floor and set them all upright.

  Lucrezia was wrapping one of the blankets around her bare shoulders. The candlelight threw her face and the fuzz of her tangled hair into deep-shadowed relief and the folds of the blanket stood out like thick, black brushstrokes. Jacomo pictured the image as a chiaroscuro woodcut, and wished he had thought to bring charcoal and paper with him this time. “Hungry now, are you?” he said, smiling at her. “Well…there’s some bread.” He held up a round flat loaf. �
��Grapes. A couple of peaches. And a piece of cheese.” Picking each item out of the basket as he spoke, he laid everything on the blanket between them.

  “Can you tear me off a piece of bread?” Lucrezia said. Jacomo tore the loaf in two and held out half. A small hand appeared from within the blanket and took it from him.

  “Are you cold?”

  She shook her head, her mouth now too full to answer. Reaching out again, she put down the rest of the bread and picked up a peach. For a few moments, neither spoke. They ate and drank, eyes fixed upon each other rather than upon their food. Jacomo remembered giving Lucrezia his bread that day in the North Hall—What about you, Signora? Are you hungry?—remembered the unprecedented, unexpected longing that had filled him as they had watched each other across the gallery, and his growing certainty that his feelings were reciprocated.

  He picked a grape from the bunch and held it to Lucrezia’s mouth. She took it from him, lipping the tips of his fingers. He offered her another, and this one she held between her teeth. She leaned in towards him, bringing her face close to his; as they touched, she bit through the skin and pushed the grape into his mouth with her tongue. For a second they both tasted the same sweet-sharp juice, and it seemed to Jacomo that this was as intimate as any more obvious moment of their couplings had been so far.

  A candle guttered. He looked up at the window. It was noticeably lighter. “Nearly dawn,” he said. “We should go.”

  “Not yet.”

  “The portrait will be finished a week tomorrow. We’ll leave the next day. It’s so soon. We can’t afford to risk discovery now.”

  “You’re right, but surely—”

  “We have to go,” Jacomo said, moving forward onto hands and knees. Lucrezia was still huddled in her blanket: this he now unwrapped. Holding her bare shoulders, he laid her back down and bent over her, elbows splayed wide. She squirmed and gasped, laughing as he ran the tip of his tongue from below her navel, up between her breasts, under her chin and round onto her mouth. One more swift kiss and then he was on his feet, scrambling into his clothes.