His Last Duchess by Gabrielle Kimm Page B

their love—and a cartload of presents and letters,” Giovanni said, sitting down and trying to pull off one of his boots. Being so wet, it stuck. He struggled with it, swearing softly, then thrust out his leg towards Lucrezia. She smiled, bent and took hold of his ankle. Bracing one of her feet on the seat of the chair, she tugged and jerked. With a sucking gasp, the boot came off, and she staggered backwards, laughing.
    â€œCan you do the other one now?” Giovanni asked.
    ***
    Lucrezia tried hard to listen to Giovanni’s news from Cafaggiolo as he put on clean, dry clothes, but now that the first euphoric rush of delight at seeing him had subsided, she found herself confused and oddly detached, unable to focus on what he had to say. Watching him now, she was torn in two. First, a sharp pinch of homesickness caught her in the throat as he described the long litany of advice that Giulietta had exhorted him to pass on to her. It was an instantly recognizable imitation of Giulietta’s voice— is she making sure she brushes her hair out thoroughly every night, and is that kitchen girl quite certain that Lucrezia’s shifts are properly dry and aired before she gives them to her to put on? At the same time, though, an uncomfortable lump of resentment towards her parents, which had been growing ever since the wedding night, sat heavy in her belly like too much meat.
    With the way things were between her and Alfonso, she knew she was not fulfilling her role as her parents must have envisaged it. She was the vessel that would carry the heir to the Este dynasty—but she was increasingly aware of being, in the end, little more than a commodity, raised for the purpose like a prize heifer and traded last October between her parents and her husband. Her mother and father of course knew nothing of the awful, dragging tension that now sucked the spontaneity out of her every encounter with Alfonso. How could they? But somehow, Lucrezia thought angrily, they ought to know. Ought to have guessed.
    â€œAre you listening, Crezzi?” she heard Giovanni say.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAre you listening? You look half asleep.”
    â€œNo—I mean yes, I am listening. And no, I’m not asleep. Of course I’m not.”
    Giovanni frowned at her. She wanted to tell him—oh, God, she wanted to tell him! The words were crowding into her mouth, demanding to be given their freedom. To begin to tell him, though, would mean wading out into the treacherous waters of an intimacy she knew she could not share. She had confided in her cousin for so long, about so many things—they had been the closest of companions for years—but this new situation stood between them like a brick wall. Lucrezia knew she could not describe the shameful failure of her marriage to anyone. Even to imagine the words leaving her mouth made her insides squirm and her face flame.
    Giovanni said, “Crezzi—is something wrong?”
    She knew he thought there was. She breathed in slowly, hesitated, then knowing she couldn’t say it, smiled and said, “No. There isn’t. Really.”
    For several long seconds they gazed at each other. Lucrezia’s smile felt as though it had been pinned in place. Then Giovanni said, “Well, if there ever is, you tell me, do you understand? I want you to tell me.”
    Lucrezia nodded.
    ***
    It was the week before Christmas and a hopeful morning sun was doing its best to break through patchy cloud. Outside the Castello, in the great open space that fronted the castle, half a dozen men were constructing a wooden gallery big enough to hold some twenty or thirty guests. Cartloads of sand were being dumped and spread thickly across the entire square, along the centre of which was a balustrade of waist-high wooden poles, spiral-striped in the Este colours of red, white and green; the railing effectively split the space into two.
    â€œThere’ll be jousting tomorrow