Read Online The Second Duchess by Elizabeth Loupas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Loupas
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seemed so straightforward back in Innsbruck: I would marry the duke and take my place as Duchess of Ferrara, protected by my family’s imperial power. I would grasp the dazzling fruits of my newly married state and keep both eyes tightly closed to the truth about the death of my husband’s first wife. Now that I was in Ferrara, however, now that I was actually married to the duke and there was no turning back, it did not seem so straightforward anymore.
Some of my Ferrarese ladies were paid spies. Or were they? My sisters-in-law had disliked my predecessor. But did they like me any better?
My husband’s mad old nursemaid pressed potions upon me. Were they always—had they always been—as harmless as they seemed?
And the Florentine ambassador looked at the duke, and at me—me? Why me?—with eyes as cold as the deepest circle of Messer Dante’s hell.
What had I done when I had agreed to this marriage?
Holy Virgin—what had I done?
“TURN YOUR HEAD to the right just a bit, Serenissima,” Frà Pandolf said. “Then the light will limn the line of your cheek with gold, and add heavenly fire to your hair as it falls over your shoulder.”
I turned my head, although I did not care for the fellow’s obsequious manner. Limn the line of my cheek with gold, indeed. Flatterer.
“Yes!” he cried. He painted away, his foxy face intent, his brush flourishing. He was only of medium height but strongly made and with an animal energy about him. He wore a short reddish-brown beard, glossy and bristling with vigor; his round dark eyes and pointed nose reinforced the impression of a fox’s slyness. Not at all what one would expect in a Franciscan friar, for all his coarse and paint-stained brown habit. Could the jackanapes really be as talented a painter as the duke said he was?
“Tell me, Frà Pandolf,” I said. “How long have you enjoyed the duke’s patronage?”
“For almost six years now, Serenissima. I came to Ferrara just after he became the duke, because even in France he was known for his artistic taste. He is generous. and such discernment! He understands the heart of the artist—that everything, everything, must give way to the art.”
Including religious vows, I thought, although of course I did not say it. Instead I asked, “And what other works have you executed?”
“Two portraits of the duke himself, Serenissima.” He continued to paint as he talked. “Two of Principessa Lucrezia, one of Principessa Leonora, one of the cardinal, and of course many classical and pastoral—”
“But mio frà , you have neglected to mention your greatest triumph,” the Ferrarese lady-in-waiting Paolina said, in a teasing, I-know-a-secret voice. Her full name was Paolina Tassoni, and she was related in some way to the duke’s majordomo; that was all I knew about her so far. She clearly knew rather more about Frà Pandolf. From the tone of her voice I wondered whether she and the painter—But no. That would be unthinkable.
“I’ve neglected nothing,” Frà Pandolf said. His self-satisfied smile had disappeared, and his vulpine eyes had narrowed. Even so he continued to paint.
“No?” Paolina laughed and shook herself free of Domenica, who was trying to silence her. “What of the portrait of Serenissima Lucrezia? I know it is hidden away and meant to be a secret, but everyone knows, do they not? Should not the new duchess have an opportunity to gaze upon the face of her predecessor?”
Holy Virgin. How many of my ladies’ tongues was the duke going to have to cut out?
“You and your secrets,” Domenica said. She sounded as if she was trying to make light of it all. “You think you know everything.”
“Perhaps I do know everything. I know there are whispers the duke shows the portrait privately to those he chooses, and boasts of his—”
“Ladies.”
I did not raise my voice, but the girl stopped midsentence. I let the silence hang in the room for a moment, and then said, “If a
Some of my Ferrarese ladies were paid spies. Or were they? My sisters-in-law had disliked my predecessor. But did they like me any better?
My husband’s mad old nursemaid pressed potions upon me. Were they always—had they always been—as harmless as they seemed?
And the Florentine ambassador looked at the duke, and at me—me? Why me?—with eyes as cold as the deepest circle of Messer Dante’s hell.
What had I done when I had agreed to this marriage?
Holy Virgin—what had I done?
“TURN YOUR HEAD to the right just a bit, Serenissima,” Frà Pandolf said. “Then the light will limn the line of your cheek with gold, and add heavenly fire to your hair as it falls over your shoulder.”
I turned my head, although I did not care for the fellow’s obsequious manner. Limn the line of my cheek with gold, indeed. Flatterer.
“Yes!” he cried. He painted away, his foxy face intent, his brush flourishing. He was only of medium height but strongly made and with an animal energy about him. He wore a short reddish-brown beard, glossy and bristling with vigor; his round dark eyes and pointed nose reinforced the impression of a fox’s slyness. Not at all what one would expect in a Franciscan friar, for all his coarse and paint-stained brown habit. Could the jackanapes really be as talented a painter as the duke said he was?
“Tell me, Frà Pandolf,” I said. “How long have you enjoyed the duke’s patronage?”
“For almost six years now, Serenissima. I came to Ferrara just after he became the duke, because even in France he was known for his artistic taste. He is generous. and such discernment! He understands the heart of the artist—that everything, everything, must give way to the art.”
Including religious vows, I thought, although of course I did not say it. Instead I asked, “And what other works have you executed?”
“Two portraits of the duke himself, Serenissima.” He continued to paint as he talked. “Two of Principessa Lucrezia, one of Principessa Leonora, one of the cardinal, and of course many classical and pastoral—”
“But mio frà , you have neglected to mention your greatest triumph,” the Ferrarese lady-in-waiting Paolina said, in a teasing, I-know-a-secret voice. Her full name was Paolina Tassoni, and she was related in some way to the duke’s majordomo; that was all I knew about her so far. She clearly knew rather more about Frà Pandolf. From the tone of her voice I wondered whether she and the painter—But no. That would be unthinkable.
“I’ve neglected nothing,” Frà Pandolf said. His self-satisfied smile had disappeared, and his vulpine eyes had narrowed. Even so he continued to paint.
“No?” Paolina laughed and shook herself free of Domenica, who was trying to silence her. “What of the portrait of Serenissima Lucrezia? I know it is hidden away and meant to be a secret, but everyone knows, do they not? Should not the new duchess have an opportunity to gaze upon the face of her predecessor?”
Holy Virgin. How many of my ladies’ tongues was the duke going to have to cut out?
“You and your secrets,” Domenica said. She sounded as if she was trying to make light of it all. “You think you know everything.”
“Perhaps I do know everything. I know there are whispers the duke shows the portrait privately to those he chooses, and boasts of his—”
“Ladies.”
I did not raise my voice, but the girl stopped midsentence. I let the silence hang in the room for a moment, and then said, “If a
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