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The Marriage Portrait: A novel Hardcover – September 6, 2022
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“I could not stop reading this incredible true story.” —Reese Witherspoon (Reese’s Book Club Pick)
"O’Farrell pulls out little threads of historical detail to weave this story of a precocious girl sensitive to the contradictions of her station...You may know the history, and you may think you know what’s coming, but don’t be so sure." —The Washington Post
Florence, the 1550s. Lucrezia, third daughter of the grand duke, is comfortable with her obscure place in the palazzo: free to wonder at its treasures, observe its clandestine workings, and devote herself to her own artistic pursuits. But when her older sister dies on the eve of her wedding to the ruler of Ferrara, Modena and Reggio, Lucrezia is thrust unwittingly into the limelight: the duke is quick to request her hand in marriage, and her father just as quick to accept on her behalf.
Having barely left girlhood behind, Lucrezia must now enter an unfamiliar court whose customs are opaque and where her arrival is not universally welcomed. Perhaps most mystifying of all is her new husband himself, Alfonso. Is he the playful sophisticate he appeared to be before their wedding, the aesthete happiest in the company of artists and musicians, or the ruthless politician before whom even his formidable sisters seem to tremble?
As Lucrezia sits in constricting finery for a painting intended to preserve her image for centuries to come, one thing becomes worryingly clear. In the court’s eyes, she has one duty: to provide the heir who will shore up the future of the Ferranese dynasty. Until then, for all of her rank and nobility, the new duchess’s future hangs entirely in the balance.
Full of the beauty and emotion with which she illuminated the Shakespearean canvas of Hamnet, Maggie O’Farrell turns her talents to Renaissance Italy in an extraordinary portrait of a resilient young woman’s battle for her very survival.
- Print length352 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherKnopf
- Publication dateSeptember 6, 2022
- Dimensions6.52 x 1.24 x 9.53 inches
- ISBN-10059332062X
- ISBN-13978-0593320624
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“I could not stop reading this incredible true story.”—Reese Witherspoon (Reese’s Book Club December ’22 Pick)
"[A] glittering, propulsive new novel . . . Few writers play as confidently with the nuts and bolts of language, and historical characters netted from the past. O’Farrell adroitly shrinks Lucrezia to her own vanishing point, even if the probable cause of the duchess’s demise was a pulmonary embolism rather than poison. O’Farrell’s creative license beautifully frames the chasms that open up between husband and wife, implicating an institution that has galvanized our canonical writers, including the Victorian poet Robert Browning, whose dramatic monologue ‘My Last Duchess’ was inspired by Branzino’s portrait of Lucrezia.” —Oprah Daily
"O’Farrell intelligently connects Lucrezia’s trapped circumstances with the art that her husband, a notable patron and collector, commissions to immortalize her . . . There is a blinding power to the heightened, almost fetishistic beauty of Renaissance art, this novel suggests as it portrays a world of far greater brutality and fierceness.” —Wall Street Journal
"[O’Farrell] has spun pure gold out of this tragic history . . . The Marriage Portrait builds a rich interior world while vividly re-creating an era, in this case the Italian Renaissance, a period overflowing with intrigue and pomp, rustling heavy fabrics and glowing frescoes, blood and lust and the desire for power.” —Minneapolis Star-Tribune
"This duchess certainly looks and sounds and feels as if she were alive . . . O’Farrell has an uncanny ability to put us in Lucrezia’s very unusual shoes. One experiences, viscerally, Lucrezia’s exhaustion and terror when she is abandoned in a strange place a few hours after her marriage, her giddy excitement and expansive feeling of freedom in the early days of her marriage, her revulsion and fear as her husband’s ‘fury and contempt’ emerge . . . The final twist is so unexpected and so gorgeously executed that it brought this reader to tears. With it, O’Farrell demonstrates fiction’s ability to offer counter narratives to those of received history, to open before us imaginative abundance and a tremulous sense of possibility.” —The Boston Globe
"O’Farrell pulls out little threads of historical detail to weave this story of a precocious girl sensitive to the contradictions of her station . . . You may know the history, and you may think you know what’s coming, but don’t be so sure. O’Farrell and Lucrezia, with her ‘crystalline, righteous anger,’ will always be one step ahead of you.. . . O’Farrell [is] one of the most exciting novelists alive.” —The Washington Post
"A transporting narrative revives a teenager mostly forgotten by history." —People Magazine
“Captivating . . . The Marriage Portrait is an emotionally intense read, lushly draped in atmospheric details . . . O’Farrell’s latest masterpiece presents a sumptuous portrait of a woman’s purposeful determination to break the bars of her gilded cage.” —Christian Science Monitor
"Thrilling . . . As the novel’s two timelines draw together, O’Farrell builds intense suspense. As always, her prose is beautiful, her characters finely drawn, her story wonderfully surprising. Browning’s Alfonso might have closed a curtain over the portrait of his duchess to declare her his possession, but O’Farrell rips that curtain away and gives her a life.” —Tampa Bay Times
"I loved The Marriage Portrait so much that I did not want to finish it. O’Farrell’s prose is beautiful and poetic. And though this novel is literary, it is also masterfully paced. The tension in the plot builds slowly at first, but soon The Marriage Portrait becomes impossible to put down . . . a feminist text that is guaranteed to inspire." —The Fredericksburg Free Lance-Star
"[A] poetically written, multilayered novel . . . O’Farrell creates another mesmerizing portrait of a Renaissance-era woman whose life is shrouded in mystery . . . Historical-fiction readers will love the cultural details, while Lucrezia’s plight speaks to modern themes of gaslighting and women’s agency . . . O’Farrell shines at instilling elegantly described scenes with human feeling, such as Lucrezia’s wedding preparations and her sense of inner strength while viewing the sunrise transform the sky at Alfonso’s country villa. The author proves equally skilled at evoking suspense." —Booklist [starred review]
“A vivid depiction of the harsh manners and rigid expectations for women within ducal courts in 16th-century Italy . . . O’Farrell is a marvelous stylist, and The Marriage Portrait is full of the same kinds of intense details that made Hamnet come alive. Her characters are captivating and believable, and the landscape of Renaissance Italy is a veritable gift to the senses, so powerfully does O’Farrell evoke the sights, sounds and smells of forest, castle and barnyard.” —BookPage, [starred review]
"A riveting tale about one woman’s fight for autonomy." —Real Simple
“Finely detailed. . . . This beguiling tale of power, politics and one woman’s fight for agency is yet another masterpiece by the author of Hamnet.” —The Globe and Mail
“Lush, provocative . . . A captivating portrait of a woman attempting to free herself from a golden cage. Fans of the accomplished Hamnet won’t be disappointed by this formidable outing.” —Publishers Weekly [starred review]
“A compelling portrait of a young woman out of step with her times . . . a vivid portrait of a turbulent age and a vibrant heroine.” —Kirkus Reviews
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Fortezza, near Bondeno, 1561
Lucrezia is taking her seat at the long dining table, which is polished to a watery gleam and spread with dishes, inverted cups, a woven circlet of fir. Her husband is sitting down, not in his customary place at the opposite end but next to her, close enough that she could rest her head on his shoulder, should she wish; he is unfolding his napkin and straightening a knife and moving the candle towards them both when it comes to her with a peculiar clarity, as if some coloured glass has been put in front of her eyes, or perhaps removed from them, that he intends to kill her.
She is sixteen years old, not quite a year into her marriage. They have travelled for most of the day, using what little daylight the season offers, leaving Ferrara at dawn and riding out to what he had told her was a hunting lodge, far in the north-west of the province.
But this is no hunting lodge, is what Lucrezia had wanted to say when they reached their destination: a high-walled edifice of dark stone, flanked on one side by dense forest and on the other by a twisting meander of the Po river. She would have liked to turn in her saddle and ask, why have you brought me here?
She said nothing, however, allowing her mare to follow him along the path, through dripping trees, over the arch-backed bridge and into the courtyard of the strange, fortified, star-shaped building, which seemed, even then, to strike her as peculiarly empty of people.
The horses have been led away, she has removed her sodden cloak and hat, and he has watched her do this, standing with his back to the blaze in the grate, and now he is gesturing to the country servants in the hall’s outer shadows to step forward and place food on their plates, to slice the bread, to pour wine into their cups, and she is suddenly recalling the words of her sister-in-law, delivered in a hoarse whisper: You will be blamed.
Lucrezia’s fingers grip the rim of her plate. The certainty that he means her to die is like a presence beside her, as if a dark-feathered bird of prey has alighted on the arm of her chair.
This is the reason for their sudden journey to such a wild and lonely place. He has brought her here, to this stone fortress, to murder her.
Astonishment yanks her up out of her body and she almost laughs; she is hovering by the vaulted ceiling, looking down at herself and him, sitting at the table, putting broth and salted bread into their mouths. She sees the way he leans towards her, resting his fingers on the bare skin of her wrist as he says something; she watches herself nodding at him, swallowing the food, speaking some words about their journey here and the interesting scenery through which they passed, as if nothing at all is amiss between them, as if this is a normal dinner, after which they will retire to bed.
In truth, she thinks, still up by the cold, sweating stone of the hall’s ceiling, the ride here from court was dull, through fields stark and frozen, the sky so heavy it seemed to droop, exhausted, on the tops of bare trees. Her husband had set the pace at a trot, mile after mile of jolting up and down in the saddle, her back aching, her legs rubbed raw by wet stockings. Even inside squirrel-lined gloves, her fingers, clutching the reins, had been rigid with cold, and the horse’s mane was soon cast in ice. Her husband had ridden ahead, with two guards behind. As the city had given way to countryside, Lucrezia had wanted to spur her horse, to press her heels into its flank and feel its hoofs fly over the stones and soil, to move through the flat landscape of the valley at speed, but she knew she must not, that her place was behind or next to him, if invited, never in front, so on and on they trotted.
At the table, facing the man she now suspects will kill her, she wishes she had done it, that she had urged her mare into a gallop. She wishes she had streaked by him, cackling with transgressive glee, her hair and cloak lashing out behind her, hoofs flinging mud. She wishes she had turned the reins towards the distant hills, where she could have lost herself among the rocky folds and peaks, so that he could never find her.
He is setting an elbow on either side of his plate, telling her about coming to this lodge—as he persists in calling it—when he was a child, how his father used to bring him hunting here. She is listening to a story about how he was made to release arrow after arrow towards a target on a tree until his fingers bled. She is nodding and making sympathetic murmurs at appropriate moments, but what she really wants to do is look him in the eye and say: I know what you are up to.
Would he be surprised, wrongfooted? Does he think of her as his innocent, unworldly wife, barely out of the nursery? She sees it all. She sees he has laid his scheme so carefully, so assiduously, separating her from others, ensuring that her retinue was left behind in Ferrara, that she is alone, that there are no people from the castello here, just him and her, two guards stationed outside, and a handful of country servants to wait on them.
How will he do it? Part of her would like to ask him this. The knife in a dark corridor? His hands about her throat? A tumble from a horse made to look like an accident? She has no doubt that all of these would fall within his repertoire. It had better be done well, would be her advice to him, because her father is not someone who will take a lenient view of his daughter’s murder.
She sets down her cup; she lifts her chin; she turns her eyes on to her husband, Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, and wonders what will happen next.
The Unfortunate Circumstances of Lucrezia’s Conception
Palazzo, Florence, 1544
In the years to come, Eleanora would come to bitterly regret the manner in which her fifth child was conceived.
Picture Eleanora in the autumn of 1544: she is in the map room of the Florentine palazzo, a chart held close to her face (she is somewhat short-sighted but would never admit this to anyone). Her women stand at a distance, as near to the window as they can get; although it is September, the city is still suffocatingly hot. The well of the courtyard below seems to bake the air, wafting out more and more heat from its stone rectangle. The sky is low and motionless; no breeze stirs the silk window coverings and the flags on the palazzo’s ramparts hang limp and flaccid. The ladies-in-waiting fan themselves and blot their foreheads with handkerchiefs, sighing noiselessly; each of them is wondering how much longer they will be required to stand here, in this panelled room, how much more time Eleanora will desire to peruse this map, and what she can possibly find so interesting about it.
Eleanora’s eyes rake over the silverpoint rendering of Tuscany: the peaks of hills, the eel-like slither of rivers, the ragged coastline climbing north. Her gaze passes over the cluster of roads that knot themselves together for the cities of Siena, Livorno and Pisa. Eleanora is a woman all too aware of her rarity and worth: she possesses not only a body able to produce a string of heirs, but also a beautiful face, with a forehead like carved ivory, eyes wide-set and deep brown, a mouth that looks well in both a smile and a pout. On top of all this, she has a quick and mercurial mind. She can look at the scratch marks on this map and can, unlike most women, translate them into fields full of grain, terraces of vines, crops, farms, convents, levy-paying tenants.
She puts down one map and, just as her women are rustling their skirts in readiness to leave for a better-ventilated room, she picks up another. She is studying the area just inland from the coast; there seem to be no marks made upon that section of the chart, other than some indistinct and irregular patches of water.
If there is one thing Eleanora cannot abide it is a lack of purpose. Under her jurisdiction, every room, every corridor, every antechamber of this palazzo has been renovated and put to use. Every bare plaster wall has been adorned and beautified. She will not allow her children, her servants or her women an empty minute in their days. From the moment they wake to the moment they rest their heads on their pillows, they are kept occupied by a schedule she has designed. Unless she is asleep, she will be engaged in a task: writing letters, taking lessons in languages, making plans or lists or overseeing the children’s care and education.
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.
As Cosimo labours away in the heat of the Sala delle Carte Geografiche, his aides and her women waiting listlessly in the room outside, exchanging yawns and resigned glances, Eleanora’s mind shrinks away from the little lost one and towards the marshlands again, skimming over their reeds, their yellow flags, their tussocks of scrubby grass. It weaves in and out of its mists and vapours. It pictures engineers with machinery and pipes arriving, draining away all that is dank, wet and unwanted. It creates lush crops, fat livestock and villages peopled by willing, grateful subjects.
She rests her arms upon her husband’s shoulders and fixes her eyes on the maps on the walls opposite as he approaches his moment of pleasure: Ancient Greece, Byzantium, the extent of the Roman Empire, constellations of the heavens, uncharted seas, islands real and imagined, mountains that disappear up into thunderstorms.
Product details
- Publisher : Knopf; First United States Edition (September 6, 2022)
- Language : English
- Hardcover : 352 pages
- ISBN-10 : 059332062X
- ISBN-13 : 978-0593320624
- Item Weight : 1.41 pounds
- Dimensions : 6.52 x 1.24 x 9.53 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #24,866 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #8 in Renaissance Literary Criticism (Books)
- #24 in Renaissance Historical Fiction (Books)
- #2,278 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Maggie O’Farrell, Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, is the author of HAMNET, Winner of the Women’s Prize for Fiction 2020, and the memoir I AM, I AM, I AM, both Sunday Times no. 1 bestsellers. Her novels include AFTER YOU’D GONE, MY LOVER’S LOVER, THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US, which won a Somerset Maugham Award, THE VANISHING ACT OF ESME LENNOX, THE HAND THAT FIRST HELD MINE, which won the 2010 Costa Novel Award, INSTRUCTIONS FOR A HEATWAVE and THIS MUST BE THE PLACE, and THE MARRIAGE PORTRAIT. She is also the author of two books for children, WHERE SNOW ANGELS GO and THE BOY WHO LOST HIS SPARK. She lives in Edinburgh.
Customer reviews
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Learn more how customers reviews work on AmazonCustomers say
Customers find the characters well-defined and masterful. They also describe the writing style as captivating and compelling. However, some find the overall quality uninspired and puzzling. Opinions are mixed on the plot, with some finding it satisfyingly complex and terrifying, while others say it's contrived and inadequate. Readers also have mixed feelings about the pacing, with others finding it well-paced and others finding the start slow.
AI-generated from the text of customer reviews
Customers find the writing style masterful, magnificent, and imaginative. They also appreciate the magnificent descriptions.
"This is the rare novel that is both well-written and a captivating story. Really fun plot line and a great read." Read more
"...The writing was beautiful and the details richly described, but the story felt flat and bloodless...." Read more
"...I loved the beautiful writing, the descriptions of Renaissance courts and the lives of women, and the closely observed descriptions of rain, darkness..." Read more
"...The descriptions do seem over-wrought at times and even Lucrezia's character comes off as inconsistent: tough and independent as a child, timid and..." Read more
Customers find the storyline compelling, enjoyable, and gift-giving. They also describe the book as a fascinating blend of mystery and intrigue. Readers say the book is plausible and well-written enough to keep their interest.
"This is the rare novel that is both well-written and a captivating story. Really fun plot line and a great read." Read more
"...Hamnet seemed to bring out in so many, it was well-written and fascinating in its own right and a good enough read...." Read more
"...license the author used to keep the novel flowing and exciting made for a really good read...." Read more
"Very enjoyable read especially if you have an interest in Italy. Well written - liked the culmination of the storyline" Read more
Customers like the characters in the book. They say the protagonist is surrounded by well-defined characters and a strong heroine.
"...She develops a strong, observant, and intelligent personality, brave enough to pet a tiger, and skillful enough to become an artist...." Read more
"...author and although too wordy at times, she does a great job of depicting the characters from two royal Italian houses...." Read more
"...If there is a fault in the telling, it is perhaps the romantic exaggeration of her character, but that is also what makes the story compelling." Read more
"...Artfully drawing her characters in the way the heroine sketches and paints those she..." Read more
Customers find the book captivating, satisfying, and immersive.
"...but it is the author’s writing and vocabulary that is the most captivating...." Read more
"...Her use of words and language is wonderful, a joy to read or listen to. I actually listened to the audio version and the reader was perfect...." Read more
"...There is very little character development, mostly plot. Some parts are engaging but I didn't feel taken with the writing or the story." Read more
"...I found it not nearly as engrossing as Hamnet, which I could not put down...." Read more
Customers find the content poignant, observant, and intelligent. They say the book provides hope and inspiration, grips their interest powerfully, and has an eye for intricate detail.
"...The author, with an expansive command of language and I eye for intricate detail for the prevailing history and culture of the times, and for..." Read more
"...She develops a strong, observant, and intelligent personality, brave enough to pet a tiger, and skillful enough to become an artist...." Read more
"...This is a gripping story that has at its core the little-known life of Lucrezia de' Medici is a pawn in her family's desire for power and her husband..." Read more
"...It is poignant and painful to read at times but Lucretia’s indomitable spirit and bravery soar over the story...." Read more
Customers are mixed about the plot. Some find the tales satisfyingly complex, with interesting tidbits of real history. They also appreciate the beautiful writing and descriptions of Renaissance courts and the lives of women. However, some find the ending contrived, confusing, and flat. They feel the tone of the book is abrupt.
"...Really fun plot line and a great read." Read more
"...I loved the beautiful writing, the descriptions of Renaissance courts and the lives of women, and the closely observed descriptions of rain, darkness..." Read more
"...but arguably, also a weakness of the novel in which the plot proceeds at a glacial pace...." Read more
"...I can't figure out why that was...it was beautifully written, had a dramatic storyline, and plenty of palace intrigue...." Read more
Customers have mixed opinions about the pacing of the book. Some find it well paced, captivating, and racing, while others say it has a slow start and they had to read many chapters to get into it.
"...It is beautifully written and paced...." Read more
"...in awe of her mastery of the subject and simultaneously frustrated by the slow progress of the story...." Read more
"...bottom-line, this is a well told, interesting story that drives relentlessly forward. Truly, “a good read.”" Read more
"...The book was very slow starting and likely too many directions to go in given all the details...." Read more
Customers find the book uninspired, puzzling, and not worth the money. They also say the plot is great but the writing is poor.
"...was well written but difficult to read for long periods as it was quite depressing...." Read more
"...A frustrating read." Read more
"I read this for a book group. Very disappointing. Not an historic novel more a romance novel...." Read more
"...O’Farrel does descriptive writing really well. This just wasn’t that interesting." Read more
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Despite the book being told from Lucrezia’s perspective, I never felt I got to know her. We learn of her lonely childhood with emotionally distant parents and siblings, her compulsion to paint the natural world around her, her increasing isolation and desperation, but she remained unknowable. The husband and his consiglieri are stock villains, the latter especially so. The loving and helpful maid was another stock character.
That said, the scholarship is so exemplary that I found the novel more than worthwhile. I enjoyed learning about Renaissance Italy - Lucrezia was born two years before the death of England’s Henry VIII but the world of Florence and Ferrara seemed quite different from London. I confess I prefer Hilary Mantel’s Thomas Cromwell trilogy to this.
Everyone says Hamnet is fabulous so I’ll have to try it, just not right now.
I loved the beautiful writing, the descriptions of Renaissance courts and the lives of women, and the closely observed descriptions of rain, darkness, architecture and animals, as well as people. The mystery of what will happen to the young Duchess, and how she will respond to her situation, make a suspenseful read.