My Last Duchess, a stravaganza fanfic

My Last Duchess

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Stravaganza

" (…) Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive."

- Robert Browning, "My Last Duchess" (Link to complete text: www. sparknotes. )

"What do you think, Senator?" asked Duke Niccolo di Chimici, soon to be Grand Duke of Tuschia, as he drew aside a red velvet curtain at the end of a hallway full of di Chimici ancestral portraits. Expecting a window with some interesting view, Rodolfo Rossi found another portrait instead: this one of a black-haired young woman, wearing a red velvet gown that matched the curtains. A smile hovered at the corners of her lips and her dark eyes sparkled, as if one of the machines from Luciano's London had captured her in lively conversation with some friend or admirer.

"My last duchess," said the Duke, sweeping a signet-ringed hand in the portrait's direction. "You are a connoisseur of the arts, I am told. She is beautiful, is she not?"

"Remarkable, Your Grace," he said truthfully. "The artist is very skilled. She looks … "

" … as if she were alive?" Another sweep of the rings, this time toward Rodolfo. "Indeed. Please, have a seat."

It was not a request in spite of the phrasing, and Rodolfo complied, sitting next to his host on one of the cushioned marble benches positioned to view the paintings.

He glanced over his shoulder at Luciano, Celestino and Gaetano, who were at the opposite end of the long hall, admiring a bronze statue of Neptune. For the first time since the Duke's announcement concerning Arianna, Luciano's anger seemed to be under control, which, considering their mental link, Rodolfo found a distinct relief. It left him free to concentrate his attention on the Duke who, despite the almost casual way he was now talking about the portrait sessions, no doubt had very deliberate intentions in showing this hidden portrait to his potential father-in-law.

"I suppose you're wondering how Brother Pandolf captured that lovely smile," Niccolo continued, without waiting for an answer. "No doubt he paid her some compliment or other while he was painting. Always so easy to please, was my lady. Always … enthusiastic."

Almost anyone, listening in on their conversation, would have heard nothing but an aging widower, reminiscing about his beloved wife. Niccolo's voice had just the right touch of gentle melancholy; his lips curved in a thin, sad smile as unlike the painted Benedetta's as possible. But his eyes, briefly glimpsed beneath his gray eyelashes, glinted coldly, and a chill crept down Rodolfo's spine.

"I take it enthusiasm is not a quality Your Grace admires in a partner?" he inquired.

The too-direct question hit its mark, and anger flashed across the Duke's distinguished features – but only for a moment. His mask returned, as smooth and unreadable as ever.

"It is, Senator," he replied. "Within reason. After all, one should not expect the gift of a nine-hundred-year-old family name, and all the honor and privilege it entails, to be valued no more highly than, say … a sunset, or a bough of cherries, or a horse."

Rodolfo remembered: Falco had not been the first di Chimici to be badly injured during a riding accident. The late Duchess, always so quiet and retiring after the birth of her first son, had fuelled so many rumors with her cause of death: drowning in the River Argento, after being thrown by a fearsome stallion whom none but the Duke was supposed to ride. If not the stallion, who or what had thrown her into the river? And if it was the horse, what had gotten into her to take that ride into the country, so far beyond the city limits, after all those years of carriages and litters?

The entire di Chimici clan had mourned for her, publicly and lavishly, commissioning a gorgeous tomb with a statue by Giuditta Miele. The Duke himself was said to not have left his rooms for a week, leaving the day-to-day administration to Princess Beatrice and the steward. In Giglia, public opinion held that Niccolo had been a loving husband to Benedetta, as well as a good father to their children, and that he was brave to bear this tragic accident of fate as nobly as he did. His enemies, of course, told a different story. As usual where rumors were concerned, especially Talian rumors, it was almost impossible to track down the truth.

Watching that gleam in the eyes of his would-be son-in-law, however, Rodolfo knew that, whatever the true story was, it had been a most unhappy one for the Duchess.

"I see." Rodolfo's face and tone were every bit as noncommittal as his conversation partners, a feat of self-control to rival Luciano's.

Niccolo nodded, satisfied that his message had gotten through along with his words. I am not a man to trifle with, he was implying. If your daughter accepts me, I shall demand nothing less than her complete submission. If she refuses, she risks becoming my enemy, and I show no mercy to my enemies. As her Regent and her father, which do you choose?

Rodolfo looked up at the painting. Benedetta's flirtatious half-smile seemed to have diminished into something thoughtful, almost sad. By the fading candlelight, her eyes were two dark shadows, the sparkle invisible.

Goddess rest her soul, he thought, making the Hand of Fortune inside his long sleeve. And somehow, whatever the cost, keep my daughter from meeting the same fate.