04Lonewolf's Short Stories

🏷️My Last Duchess🏷️

Inspiration: The poem 'My Last Duchess' by Robert Browning
(Word Count: 963 Words)

There was my duchess painted on the wall.

Fra Pandolf had done well, his brush strokes capturing her beautiful appearance and gentle smile. As I paused in the grand hall, my eyes roaming the painting, I recalled with sadness the immense warmth that she had bestowed upon all. She had been but an angel on this earth, a woman with a heart of gold. Oftentimes her visits to the village had brought great joy to the poor, as she kindly called upon each family, gifting much-needed food and drink, and tenderly inquiring as to each person's health. Within our dark fortress, ruled by the black, brooding duke, she had been a ray of light. She had protected us oftentimes against the duke's nasty temper, and she had shown a kindness to us most unusual for one of her social prestige. She had been beloved. And now she was greatly missed by all.

All, that was, except for the Duke of Ferrara.

I felt my fists and jaw clench as I thought of him, my head growing hot.

The duke. It is his fault the sweet duchess is dead.

Ah, I cooled my anger with a gentle reminder, but he shall soon face the consequence for what he has done.

I gazed up at the painting of my beloved mistress as I vowed, "he shall pay for what he did to you,"

Her kind eyes gazed back at me, as though she saw into my very soul, and I felt a twinge in my heart. She had taught love and forgiveness to all of us, and, had she been alive, she would have pleaded for me to take a different path than the one I was now preparing to walk.

But she isn't alive, I sternly reminded myself, hardening my heart, and it's his fault.

Still, even whilst she was but an image on a wall, she would want no part of what was to be done. I stepped near to her, lifting my hand as though to caress her kind, peaceful face, my hand hovering mere centimetres above the canvas.

No, she would not wish to witness it.

And so, I moved my hand to instead grasp the rope next to the painting and give it a gentle tug. The curtain fell over the painting, a veil over my mistresses' innocent eyes.

"It is for the best Duchess." I promised, speaking to myself as well as her, "it is for the best."

Then, I straightened and took a deep breath, taking a moment to compose myself before striding out of the room, feeling the small vial in my pocket bump against my leg with each step.

The kitchen, filled with sweat and steam, was bustling with activity as I entered, the blended aroma of the several dishes being prepared permeating the air.

"There you are Signore Romani. It's nearly the sixth hour and supper is just about ready to be served," Signora Bellini exclaimed as she stood at the stove, stirring a pot, her signature apron splattered as always with various pieces of the meals she cooked up, featuring a large stain of what appeared (and what my nose perceived) to be pumpkin soup.

"My apologies signora, my pocket watch appears to be a bit behind," I smiled at her, and she dismissed my lateness with a brisk shake of her head before resuming her work at the stove. Seeing that she intended to say no more, I added, "Very well, I suppose I shall take the master (oh how I hate calling him that) his food. Where is he?"

"He's in his room, ranting and raving as always." Came the quiet reply from the scullery maid.

"What ails the beloved master this time Giana?" the cook asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm as she began to ladle the soup into a bowl.

"Something about a poor nights sleep," the girl answered, her tone devoid of sympathy, "and serves him right. I wonder he can sleep at all after what he did!"

"Giana!" Signora Bellini reprimanded her, more in fear of them being overheard by one of the duke's cronies, for servants have been executed for less, than any real reproach of the sentiments expressed and felt by us all. Then she turned, handing me a tray laden with soup, bread, butter, and a large goblet of wine, pointedly saying, "well here the master's food is."

"Thank you kindly." I smiled at her before turning and sweeping out the door, calling over my shoulder, "Well, I'm off to give the duke his supper."

"Good luck." Called out the cook.

"He'll surely need it," I heard Giana comment as the door closed behind me.

Out of sight and hearing, I placed the tray on one of the many chest of drawers within the grand hall, my fingers trembling as, after one more glance behind me, I drew the small vial forth and removed the stopper, quickly pouring it's contents into the rich wine which would conceal any taste or odour not its own.

Forcing a smile upon my face, I entered the duke's room,
"Here is your supper my lord."

"About time," the duke grumbled.

Supressing the urge to drive my fist into his ugly face, I apologised for the delay, backing out of the room and swinging the door so that it was left only slightly ajar.

My lips twitched as the sound of slurping which began only a moment after I had left. Certainly, the greedy pig would get exactly what he deserved. I was a patient man, and it was not long before he drained the glass of wine.

A cry, then the sound of glass shattering on the floor. Silence.

And now it is his smile that is stopped forever.