her appear taller and more slender than she was.
Ippolito wrote of the graceful manner in which Lucrezia danced. So Isabella must summon a dancing master to the castle and practice dancing.
Lucrezia played charmingly on the lute which accompanied her sweet singing voice. Very well, Isabella must play her lute, practice her singing more constantly than ever.
There was one who looked on with aloof amusement at all these preparations. This was Isabella’s husband, Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua.
The man irritated Isabella. Lazy as he was, there had been occasions when he had reminded her that he was ruler of Mantua, and she never forgot them; and, feeling herself to be his superior, the fact that she was forced on such occasions to acknowledge his supremacy was galling. Many people in Italy considered him a great soldier, a man of some importance; but to Isabella there was only one important family in Italy—her own, the Estes—and the rest should consider themselves highly honored to mate with them. Her dislike of the Borgia marriage had its roots in this belief, and lazy Francesco was fully aware of her feelings.
He understood her too well, this soldier husband; and to see his supercilious smiles at her fear of Lucrezia was decidedly irritating.
She stormed at him: “It is very well for you. What do you care! I tell you this, I do not enjoy seeing my family so demean itself.”
“You should be pleased to see it so enrich itself, my dear,” said gentle Francesco.
“Ducats! What are they in exchange for this … this misalliance?”
“Ask your father, Isabella. He has a mighty respect for the ducat. And ducats are ducats, whether they come from the Papal coffers or those of Ferrara.”
“You mock me.”
His expression softened a little. He remembered the first days of their marriage, his pride in her who had seemed to tower above all other women. Had he in those days accepted her own estimation of herself? Perhaps. But she had been handsome; she had been sprightly and intelligent. Ah, if Isabella had been more humble, what an enchanting person she might have been!
“Nay,” he said. “I do not mean to mock.”
“You have seen this girl. Tell me what she is like. These brothers of mine, and all those who report on her, seem to have been bemused by a display of velvet, brocade and fine jewels.”
“So you hope to dazzle by an even more splendid display of velvet and brocade, with finer jewels?”
“Tell me, when you saw the girl did she dazzle you?”
Francesco thought back to that day when he had passed through Rome as the hero of Fornovo—that battle which had driven the French from Italy and had later proved to be far from decisive. He remembered a pleasant creature; a child she had been then. He had heard that she was sixteen but he would have thought her younger. He conjured up a vague vision with long golden hair and light eyes, very striking because not often seen in Italy.
“I remember her but vaguely,” he answered. “She seemed a pleasant child.”
Isabella looked sharply at her husband. The “child,” if rumor did not lie, had been far from innocent even then. Isabella would have been interested to know what she had thought of Francesco who oddly, so it seemed to her, was so attractive to women. She could understand Ippolito’s popularity, or Ferrante’s and that of her bastard brother Giulio. But they were Estes. The fascination of her ugly husband was beyond her comprehension.
She shrugged aside such thoughts, for there was no time to think of anything but the coming wedding.
She said: “I must write at once to Elizabetta. I hear that the cortège will spend a little time at Urbino. I must put your sister on her guard against the Borgias.”
Francesco thought of his prim sister Elizabetta, who had married the Duke of Urbino, and he said: “The bride is not very old. She will be coming to a strange country. I doubt not that she will be filled with apprehension. If you write to Elizabetta, ask her to be kind to the girl.”
Isabella laughed. “Kind to Borgia! Is one kind to vipers? I shall certainly warn Elizabetta to be on her guard.”
Francesco shook his head. “You will hatch some scheme between yourselves to make her days in Ferrara as uncomfortable as you can, I doubt not.”
Francesco turned and strode away. Isabella looked after him. He seemed quite moved. Could he have felt some tender feeling for the girl when he had