Lady of Asolo (15 page)

‘I’m fine. Just give me a few seconds to collect my thoughts.’

‘Have you been in the past?’

‘Yes. She got to her feet, her body languidly relaxed. The tension she’d felt earlier had dissipated, and she was able to grab hold of Luca’s hand without wanting to make love to him. For that was what she’d been wanting, she realised now. A sudden sense of unreality.
You’re completely nuts, Fern. Lusting after Luca then having it off with Zorzo.

‘Come on, let me buy you lunch,’ she said. ‘I’m starving. And then I’d like to get a pressie for Aunt Susan. A handbag, I think. Her old one is practically falling apart.’

It happened as Zorzo suggested, and I bribed a kitchen maid, who is the same build as me, to wear my clothes and the veil I negotiated to spare my modesty. The maid was pronounced intact; I could go to my wedding “pure”.

A month after my return from Castelfranco, when my painter accompanied me as far as the gates of the Barco and let me go in on my own, to sneak into the stables and quickly change into my own clothing, I realised my courses were late. Yes, I am with child, and I go to my nuptials carrying Zorzo’s baby. The thought makes me tremble and at the same time lightens by spirits. No one knows. Not my sister. Not Dorotea. Not the babe’s father. Lodovico will think the child is his and has arrived early, I hope. He was delighted when I accepted his offer of marriage, and even more so when I asked that we wed immediately for it will soon be Lent.

Tomorrow is the day when we’ll make our vows in Asolo’s church of Santa Caterina. I have been given leave by my lady to rest, in preparation. So far, the only sign of my pregnancy is the lateness of my monthly bleed and a tenderness in my breasts. No sickness, unlike Fiammetta, who told me she’d been wretched for months.

I’m working on a painting, using the oils Zorzo gave me. ’Tis a representation of Pegaso, and I work without thinking, for I can’t bear to think too much. The future will be what it will be, and I’m tossed like a leaf in the winds of destiny. Lodovico has been the epitome of a gentle knight these past weeks, and I’ve allowed myself to believe that all will be well. I’ve learnt not to shudder away from him when he approaches; I’ve learnt not to long for my painter during the long, cold, winter evenings when my lady has kept me close to her while she suffers from her stomach colic; and I’ve learnt not to wish I could be marrying Zorzo.

I won’t let myself think about my true love’s burning glances that make my skin flame, and how his touch sends my
figa
into a quiver. Such thoughts aren’t seemly in a maid about to be married to another man. I won’t dwell on how Zorzo makes my heart sing and how, when I paint with him, I feel as if I have some value in this world. And I won’t give in to the misery that bubbles beneath the surface of my bravado.

There’s a lot for which I can be thankful. Signor Lodovico has bought a house in Asolo. His family in Ferrara are so against our marriage he won’t subject me to the scheming and gossip of his people. Part of me can’t help but feel he won’t subject himself. Instead, we shall live in the shadow of my lady’s castle and she has promised we’ll always be welcome at her court.

I put down my paintbrush and survey my work. It isn’t a masterpiece, that’s for certain. There’s still much I need to learn.

Later, after supper taken with my lady in her rooms, I prepare myself for bed. I’ve been given quarters on my own this night, so that I can rest. I unpin my hair and shake it loose before brushing it. Then I slip off my clothes and put on my nightgown. The bed is cold and I wriggle around to get warm. How can I sleep with the thoughts no amount of denial can keep out of my head? I shut my eyes and I must have slept, for when I open them ’tis morning.

The day passes in a blur and before I know it, Lodovico and I are married, the banquet is over, and ’tis time for the dancing to start. We’re at his Asolo house, having walked in a procession up the hill from Santa Caterina, the whole town on the streets to watch us in our finery. Now we’re in the dining hall; Lodovico’s servants have pushed the tables to one side and the musicians are preparing their instruments: lutes, pipes and tambourines. We are to dance a
saltarello
, and I sense the excitement of the guests as they form a line.

My husband
my husband!
bows and I drop into a deep curtsey. His thin lips flash a white-toothed smile as he takes my hand and leads me into the intricate hops and leaps of the dance. I can feel my face set in a mask, the mask of a happy bride. I don’t need a
Bauta
from Venice; my bravado is mask enough. There’s a lump in my throat and a great heaviness in my chest. But I won’t give in to self-pity. I won’t let anyone see that I’m unhappy. I have my child to think of. He or she will be born into a home with wealth. Lodovico must never know the baby isn’t his. Tonight, he’ll believe I’m his virgin bride. I’ve ground some nutmeg into a powder, which I’ve pushed up inside me; Dorotea has assured me it will serve its purpose.

We had a feast that would grace my lady’s table, and did so in fact, for she was our guest of honour. Antipasto of salads followed by lasagne, risotto and ravioli. Then roast pheasant, veal, turbot and carp, as well as capons and suckling pig. I watched Lodovico gobbling everything with his bony mouth, and ate little myself.

When I dreamed of marriage to a handsome suitor -
was it only a year and a half ago
? -
I never imagined what my wedding feast has been like today. The noise, and the richness of the food, and the clattering of the dishes. I’ve kept my mask in place throughout, smiling and nodding and smiling and nodding and chewing food that tasted as I imagined sawdust would have tasted. My stomach heaves and I swallow down vomit. Of all times to have sickness from the babe. . . .

Dorotea was envious when she helped me to dress earlier. ‘I told you he wanted you,’ she said. ‘Right from the first moment. Thank God you’ve seen sense about the painter. Let’s hope the nutmeg powder works.’ She pinned up my hair. ‘Signor Lodovico thinks the world of you, Cecilia. You mustn’t let him down. Then he’ll provide well for you.’

And for my child, I say to myself.

Now I’m dancing with him, my hand in his. I sail through the air in a leap of the dance’s
posture
. My mask is firmly in place as Lodovico and I hop apart, and I’m smiling and nodding and smiling and nodding again. Within me, however, dread has made its abode. Dread of what is to come this night. Will I get away with it? For if Lodovico finds me not a virgin, it will be his right to send me from his bed, from this house, from this town. And I shall be but a beggar-maid or worse.

I leap in the dance, heat creeping into my face, my hair flowing behind me, encased in a long net. A prickle of sadness as I remember Zorzo running his fingers through my tresses and lifting them to his lips. How he insisted I leave my curls free when he painted. Why am I thinking of him?
Put your mask back on, Cecilia.
So I nod and smile and nod and smile.

Lodovico smiles back and whispers, ‘’Tis time for us to go to our room.’

I dip a curtsey and turn away. Walking across the hall, I feel numb. Dorotea falls into step beside me and we make our reverences to the Queen. ‘Bless you, my girls,’ she says. ‘Sweet Cecilia, you’ve done me proud today. I wish you every happiness.’

Dorotea leaves me at the door to the bedroom that overlooks the valley below, and the maid Lodovico has employed to take care of me –
imagine! I have a maid of my own
– helps me undress. Marta, a peasant woman with garlicky breath, unclasps the gold necklace (the wedding gift from my lady), and places it on the chest in the corner. Then she helps me into my nightdress and braids my hair.

When she leaves, I’m alone and can remove my invisible mask. My mouth droops as I get into the large bed to wait. Hearing voices outside the door, Lodovico’s friends making ribald jokes, I put my “mask” on again and it’s so rigid I fear my smile will crack the pretence.

My husband comes into the room. He stops and rubs his hands together. ‘Ah,’ he says, and my belly quakes. He goes to the chest and takes off his doublet, eyes glinting in the candlelight as he sizes me up like a prize horse he has bought.

I can hear the sounds of our guests, laughing and drinking and dancing now that they’ve seen us to our chamber, and I want to crawl under the covers and never come out again.
Act your age, Cecilia. You’re not a child anymore.
So I sit up in the bed and the sheet falls from me, exposing my nakedness.

My husband is upon me, pinning me down under his weight, and thrusting into me without so much as a kiss or a touch. My
figa
is dry from the ground nutmeg and it hurts. It really hurts. It hurts so much that I cry out.

‘Shhh,’ he says. ‘’Tis but your maidenhead. Lie still and let me finish.’ Relief fills me momentarily, but then he ruts into me, rutting and rutting and rutting, making the bed ropes creak and the headboard thump against the wall. I lie there and stare up at the ceiling until he groans and collapses on top of me.

‘Not bad, for a first time. It will improve. Ah, my wife, I’ve waited so long for this day. I knew I’d have to marry you to bed you.’ He withdraws his prick from me and, without so much as a
goodnight
, turns over and falls asleep. I put my hand between my legs, and when I withdraw it there’s blood on my fingers.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, I’ve lost the baby. Not again. I can’t bear it.
She jerked awake, tears streaming down her face. She lifted her hand. No blood. She rolled over in the bed and stared at the sheet. White.

She hadn’t been pregnant; that had been Cecilia. It had brought it all back to her, though, the shame of what she’d done. And the terrible, agonising guilt.

When she’d found out that she and Harry had conceived a child, she’d been in denial. She hadn’t looked after herself. She’d worked all the hours God had sent and, when she’d come down with the ’flu, she hadn’t gone to the doctor. The infection and the raging temperature were what had caused her miscarriage, apparently. She’d been glad at first; she hadn’t wanted a baby. It was too soon, they weren’t married yet, and she needed to get her career established first before taking a break to have children.

She remembered being so angry with Harry for not using a condom that one time. It had been after a party, and they’d gone back to his place a bit tipsy. Perhaps she should have kept the contraceptive coil she’d had put in after they’d started sleeping together. But it had made her bleed constantly, which was why she’d had it removed. Then, when she’d missed that first period, she’d hardly noticed she’d been so busy at work.

After her monthlies hadn’t appeared for the second time, and she’d started the most dreadful morning sickness, she’d bought herself a pregnancy test kit. When the result had shown positive, she’d wept and had kept it to herself for a week. Then she’d told Harry and he’d been over the moon, suggesting they bring their wedding date forward. She’d argued against that. After all, the church and the reception venue had been booked for the following summer. The baby would have been born by then.

In the meantime, they’d decided not to tell anyone. They’d wait until she was showing. She’d insisted on it, saying she didn’t want to jeopardise her chances at work. How selfish of her!

It was the sight of a mother with her new-born baby in a pram at the supermarket that had brought on the guilt. That tiny scrap of human life had seemed so vulnerable, but at the same time so vibrant. She’d wanted to cradle the other woman’s child in her arms and whisper, sorry, as if it had been her own baby.

Harry had been distraught. He hadn’t come out and blamed her outright, but Fern was sure, deep down, that he held it against her. It was the way he’d started being less affectionate towards her, hardly touching her anymore. As a consequence, she’d lost herself in her work again, telling herself he’d get over it.

Within her, the guilt festered like a wound that wouldn’t heal. When Harry had died, she was sure it was some form of punishment for what she’d done. Even when the sensible voice in her head told her not to be ridiculous, divine retribution didn’t exist, she couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t worthy of being loved by any man. She was tainted. Harry had been waiting for her on the concourse at King’s Cross Underground and she’d been late. If she hadn’t cared so much about her damn career, they’d both have left the station before the fire started. She would pay the price for her selfishness for the rest of her life.

A keening sound escaped from deep within her as she sat in her bed at Aunt Susan’s house, tears streaming down her face. A knock at the door, and her aunt poked her head into the room. ‘Whatever’s the matter, my lovely?’

‘She . . . she . . . she’s lost her baby.’

‘Who’s lost her baby?’

‘Cecilia.’

Aunt Susan put her arms around Fern and rocked her gently. ‘Shush! You’ve had another nightmare. There, there. You’ll be fine now.’

She wasn’t fine, but she wouldn’t say anything to her aunt. That part of herself she’d keep buried forever. That hard, ambitious woman wasn’t the Fern of today. That festering guilt would always be with her. And now Cecilia had lost her baby too.
I can’t go back there into the past anymore. The pain would be too much to bear.

‘Auntie,’ Fern said. ‘I know you think I’m still suffering from stress and don’t believe I could be slipping back in time. Perhaps you’re right. Whatever the case, I can’t stop it of my own accord.’

‘Then I think you should get medical help,’ Aunt Susan said, stroking Fern’s arm.

‘No, not that. Luca’s mother mentioned we could ask the local priest to bless this house. What do you think?’

‘Hmm. Not sure about all that mumbo-jumbo. But if it would make you feel better, of course.’

‘Thank you,’ Fern said, pecking her aunt on the cheek.