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A novel
by Maggie O'Farrell
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Eleanora's head begins to teem with ideas for this marshland. They must drain it. No, they must irrigate it. They could grow crops here. They could build a city. They could instal a system of lakes for the breeding of fish. Or an aqueduct or a—
Her thoughts are interrupted by a door opening and the sound of boots on the floor: a confident, assertive stride. She does not turn but smiles to herself as she holds up the map to the light, watching how the glow of the sun illuminates the mountains and towns and fields.
A hand lands on her waist, another on her shoulder. She feels the stippled sting of a beard on her neck, the moist press of lips.
"What are you up to, my busy little bee?" her husband murmurs into her ear.
"I am wondering about this land," she says, still holding up the map, "near the sea, here, do you see?"
"Mmm," he says, sliding an arm around her, burying his face in her pinned-up hair, pressing her body between his and the hard edge of the table.
"If we were to drain it, it might be possible to put it to work in some way, either by farming it or building on it and—" She breaks off because he is grappling with her skirts, hoisting them up so that his hand may roam unimpeded along her knee, up her thigh, and up, further, much further up. "Cosimo," she chides, in a whisper, but she needn't have worried because her women are shuffling out of the room, their dresses skimming the floor, and Cosimo's aides are leaving, all of them clustering at the exit, eager to be away.
The door closes behind them.
"The air is bad there," she continues, displaying the map between her pale, tapered fingers, as if nothing is happening, as if there isn't a man behind her, trying to navigate his way through layers of undergarments, "malodorous and unhealthy, and if we were to—"
Cosimo turns her around and removes the map from her hands. "Yes, my darling," he says, guiding her backwards to the table, "whatever you say, whatever you want."
"But, Cosimo, only look—"
"Later." He thrusts the map on to the table, then lifts her on to it, pushing at the mass of her skirts. "Later."
Eleanora lets out a resigned sigh, narrowing her sloping cat eyes. She can see that there is no diverting him from this. But she seizes his hand, nonetheless. "Do you promise?" she says. "Promise me. You'll give me leave to make use of that land?"
His hand fights hers. It is a pretence, a game, they both know. One of Cosimo's arms is twice the width of hers. He could strip this dress off her in seconds, with or without her agreement, were he an altogether different man.
"I promise," he says, then kisses her, and she releases his hand.
She has never, she reflects as he sets to, refused him in this. She never will. There are many areas in their marriage in which she is able to hold sway, more than other wives in similar positions. As she sees it, unimpeded access to her body is a small price to pay for the numerous liberties and powers she is permitted.
She has had four children already; she intends to have more, as many as her husband will plant within her. A large ruling family is what is needed to give the province stability and longevity. Before she and Cosimo married, this dynasty was in danger of petering out, of dissolving into history. And now? Cosimo's sovereignty and the region's power are assured. Thanks to her, there are two male heirs up in the nursery already, who will be trained to step into Cosimo's shoes, and two girls who can be married into other ruling families.
She keeps herself focused on this thought because she wants to conceive again, and because she doesn't want to dwell on the unbaptised soul she lost last year. She never speaks of this, never tells anyone, not even her confessor, that its little pearl-grey face and curled fingers still haunt her dreams, that she longs for it and wants it, even now, that its absence has pierced a hole right through her. The cure for this secret melancholy is, she tells herself, simply to have another baby as soon as she can. She needs to get pregnant again and then all will be well. Her body is strong and fruitful. The people of Tuscany, she knows, refer to her as "La Fecundissima" and it is entirely apt: she has found birthing children not the agony and hellfire she was led to believe. She brought her own nurse, Sofia, with her when she left her father's house and this woman takes care of her offspring. She, Eleanora, is young, she is beautiful, her husband loves her and is faithful to her and would do anything to please her. She will fill that nursery up in the eaves; she will stuff it full of heirs; she will produce child after child after child. Why not? No more babies will slip away from her before time: she will not allow it.
Excerpted from The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrell. Copyright © 2022 by Maggie O'Farrell. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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