And so I waited, as was, I supposed, the lot of women.
In those first days after Signor Vespucci’s departure from Genoa, I found myself missing him. Our discussion of Dante had left me with a fondness toward him, and I appreciated that my cleverness in such things was not off-putting to my suitor—quite the reverse, in fact.
And so I missed him and perhaps, more so, I missed the conversations we had not yet had. I knew that we would have nothing but time for such things once we were married, but even so.
And yet, as the days wore on, and we did not hear back from him, that very idea of marriage began to grow ever fainter and more alien to me, like the page of a book one has pored over so often that the ink begins to fade. Perhaps it would be for the best if I heard no more from him, for what did I know of marriage, or of men? Or, more specifically, of this particular man? Knowledge of poetry, a fine mind, and a handsome person did not a good marriage make. Or did it? What more was there, really? I knew I was lucky to have such a young and handsome suitor. Most girls my age were married to men much older than they.
And every so often I would remember what he had said about Florence, about the society there, and about what I could expect to find. I did want that: to meet those wise and learned men that Signor Vespucci had spoken of. I did not want to remain in Genoa with my parents all my life, seeing and learning nothing more of the world than my own town.
Yet who knew if Signor Vespucci had spoken in earnest about taking me to Florence, and presenting me to the Medici’s circle? Why should men like Lorenzo de’ Medici care about a simple nobleman’s daughter from Genoa? Signor Vespucci had spoken no more than a few words on the subject, and I was ready to tumble right into the marriage bed. As far as wooing went, he had not needed to try very hard. And perhaps that’s all his words had been—weightless words meant to woo a naïve maid.
Just over a week after Signor Vespucci’s departure, my friend Elisabetta came to visit me. Quite the gossip, she was a year older than me and still unmarried, which perhaps accounted for our friendship more than anything else: we were the only noble girls of age who had yet to be married or confined to a cloister. Elisabetta was nice enough to talk to, and to visit the merchants with, but often I could only spend so much time in her company before the spite that worked its way into her gossip began to wear on me.
We sat outside in the courtyard, wearing wide-brimmed hats to shield our faces from the sun, yet with the crowns cut out so that our hair could be pulled through and left to fall down our backs, that it might lighten to a dazzling shade of gold. That was what the Venetian ladies did, anyway, and it was said Venetian women were the most beautiful in the world.
“Any word from your handsome suitor?” she inquired as soon as we were seated.
“No,” I answered. “And what of you? Does your father still have his heart set on Count Ricci?”
Elisabetta made a face, and I saw that my words had stung her in a manner I had not intended. The latest gossip about town (for I had Chiara to keep me informed when too much time had passed since Elisabetta’s last visit) was that Elisabetta’s father, after failing to broker her a marriage between any of the younger scions of the local families, had offered her to Count Ricci, a childless widower nearing fifty. I had not thought there was any truth to the tale, but the look on Elisabetta’s face told me otherwise.
“God forgive me, but I should rather be a nun,” she said, primly crossing herself.
I laughed off my discomfort. “Let us hope it does not come to that. Do not worry yourself, amica. Surely your father will look elsewhere for a match for you—Pisa, perhaps, or Florence.”
Elisabetta waved my words aside. “Bah. Pisa is full of nothing but scholars and priests. Florence, though—Florence, it seems, is the place from which husbands hail.” She very nearly leered at me. “As you would know, my dear Simonetta.”
“I have no husband as yet, from Florence or elsewhere,” I said.
“You will soon enough, or so I hear.”
I shrugged in a rather unladylike way. My mother would be appalled. “Perhaps.”
I could feel her eyeing me from beneath the brim of her hat. “Was he not pleasing to you?” she asked.
“Pleasing enough,” I said, remembering that strange moment of kinship. “It is just … I do not know that I want any husband yet.”
Elisabetta laughed. “What else could you do but get a husband?”
“What else indeed,” I murmured, but I knew the answer as well as she did: nothing. The most I had ever dared hope for was that I might find a husband tolerant enough to permit my continued study and reading of poetry, and wealthy enough to keep me supplied with books. Signor Vespucci was just such a one.
“You could never be a nun,” she continued. “You are far too pretty.” When she said it, it sounded as though she were accusing me of being a witch.
“A convent might not be so terrible,” I said, leaning my head against the wall behind us and closing my eyes. I knew even as I spoke that my parents would never allow me to take holy vows. As the only child of the family, I was expected to make an advantageous marriage—and with my beauty, so I had been told many times, I would no doubt be able to make the most fortuitous of matches. Yet the nuns were allowed to read, and the most skilled of them even copied manuscripts.
Elisabetta was still watching me. “I heard he has a mistress,” she said suddenly.
I opened my eyes. “Who? Count Ricci?”
“No,” she said, her gaze still fixed on me. “Your Signor Vespucci.”
I felt as though the pleasant feeling Signor Vespucci had planted in my stomach suddenly went sour. “What of it?” I asked, belying my discomfort—or so I hoped. “Most men do.”
“She is a courtesan in town,” Elisabetta went on, as though I had not spoken. “Her name is Violetta. Apparently she is very beautiful, and much sought after for her particular … gifts.”
I could not believe Elisabetta was insinuating such things—it was as near to vulgar as I had ever heard her. “And so?” I asked, my voice a bit sharp. “What am I to do about it? Not marry him because he once bedded a courtesan? If such were grounds for refusing a husband, every woman in the world would remain a spinster.”
Elisabetta turned her head away slightly. “I just thought you should know.”
I narrowed my eyes. I knew jealousy plain enough when I saw it. Yet Elisabetta seemed to credit me with having more control of my own fate than I did. I may have fancied that I had made a decision in regard to Signor Vespucci, but so long as my father saw an advantage to the match, betrothed I would be. Really, the only thing for me to decide was how much resistance I would offer up.
I closed my eyes again, face tilted up to the sun, the creaminess of my skin be damned. Neither of us spoke again for a long while, and when I finally broke the silence it was only to ask Elisabetta if she might like some wine.
* * *
Three days later, a letter arrived from Florence. Signor Vespucci had spoken to his parents and was returning to Genoa, so the missive went, where he hoped he might have the privilege of coming to call upon my parents and me at once.
I scarcely heard my mother exclaiming in happiness, nor my father proudly booming about what an excellent match it was, an excellent match indeed. No, instead I felt that same warmth sprawl through my lower abdomen, accompanied by something else, something that—I thought—might be joy. And if it wasn’t, perhaps it would be, one day.
3
Signor Vespucci arrived one fine spring morning, and immediately sought a private audience with my father. I was awake, dressed, and groomed as perfectly as a queen—my mother had seen to that—for we had known that Signor Vespucci would come this day. My mother paced my bedchamber restlessly while we waited to be summoned downstairs to my father’s office.
“What can be taking so long?” she burst out, after half an hour had passed. “Surely they cannot be haggling over the dowry already?”
I said noth
ing, having no answer and knowing my mother did not expect one from me. What if he had come to tell us he had changed his mind? It was the question I dared ask only of myself. Or to tell us his parents had not given their consent? What then?
Well, at least Count Ricci is still available, as he remains unmarried to Elisabetta or anyone else. Yet at this, my heart only began to beat harder. Surely Signor Vespucci brought good news. Why else would he have been so eager to return?
I fought the urge to get up and pace with my mother.
Fifteen minutes later, my father’s manservant came up to fetch us. “Madonna Cattaneo, Madonna Simonetta,” he said, bowing, “Don Cattaneo requests your presence in his study with his guest.”
My mother could not quite stifle her unladylike cry of glee, but managed to compose herself. “Grazie, Giorgio. We will be along directly.”
He bowed again and left the room.
My mother came to me and clutched my hand in hers, pulling me from my chair. “This is it, mia bella Simonetta,” she said. “Are you ready?”
She did not wait for an answer, but chattered on. “You are about to become betrothed! Your life is beginning!”
I smiled. “Perhaps we should go downstairs now, Mama. It would not do to keep my … suitor waiting.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “It does not do to appear too eager. We shall go, then, but slowly. A lady never runs.”
I followed my mother, my hand still in hers. We descended the stairs to the first floor, where my father’s study was. My mother paused outside the door—squeezing my hand for just a moment—before pushing it open and stepping inside.
My father and Signor Vespucci both looked up as we entered, nearly identical expressions of delight on their faces. They had a decanter of wine between them on the desk, with just a splash left in each of their glasses. “Ah, there they are!” my father said. “Ladies, do come in, so we might share the good news.”
Signor Vespucci drew up chairs for us, sweeping a bow as he returned to his own chair. Once we were both seated, my father spoke again. “Simonetta, Signor Vespucci has, having received the blessing of his parents, just now made me an offer for your hand, and I have accepted.” He seemed not to notice my mother’s sigh of happiness, and continued on. “The formal betrothal shall take place posthaste, and you shall be married before the end of the year. What say you, my dear?”
“I am quite pleased, Papa,” I said, my eyes modestly on the floor. Yet for just an instant, because I could bear it no longer, I glanced up at Signor Vespucci, allowing him to see my eyes, my smile, so that he might know I spoke truly.
His face was positively rosy; his joy a visible, living thing. I looked back down, almost afraid to look upon his happiness, and afraid of my own response. Was this what Dante had written of, then? He had, after all, only ever loved his Beatrice from afar. Was it this feeling that had inspired him to write, this sensation as though I had stepped off of a high cliff and was falling, tumbling, yet with the sure knowledge that when the moment came, I would be able to spread wings and fly, like a bird soaring over sparkling blue waves?
My father was speaking again, and I had to struggle to pull my mind from my delicious descent. “We thought we should pour ourselves some wine and toast the happy occasion,” he was saying. “We’ve glasses for you two as well; go on, then, signore, pour for your future bride, won’t you?”
Signor Vespucci obliged, filling my glass, then his own. He lifted it to me, and tapped it against my own. “To your health, Madonna,” he said. “And to our future happiness.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, holding his eyes as we both drank. Then I looked away, flustered. What could I be thinking, making cow’s eyes at a man in the presence of my parents?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, we were to be husband and wife. What did it matter anymore?
“Marco,” my father said, familiarly addressing his future son-in-law, “tell my wife and your intended about the offer you and your family have so graciously extended to us.”
“Of course,” Signor Vespucci said. He shifted in his chair to more completely face my mother and me. “Once they had given their blessing to my marriage, my parents asked that I invite the three of you to Florence. That way the details of the betrothal contract can be worked out in person, and Madonna Simonetta can begin to become accustomed to her new home. We have already found a house at which to lodge you.”
“Why, we should be delighted!” my mother exclaimed. “We will be able to make the journey, will we not, my dear?” She directed her question to my father.
“I am certain Genoa can spare me for a few months,” he said. “I told Marco we are honored to accept.”
Signor Vespucci’s eyes sought mine again. “I shall be able to introduce you to my circle in Florence, Madonna Simonetta,” he said. “And, of course, I shall present you to the Medici brothers, as well as their esteemed parents.”
I felt my wings begin to stretch, to flex, ever so slightly. “I should like nothing better, Signor Vespucci.”
He took my hand and kissed it. “Please,” he said, “just Marco.”
I knew that, very soon, I would be flying.
4
The household was, naturally, thrown into complete upheaval following Signor Vespucci’s—Marco’s—momentous visit. There was much to do in preparation for our departure for Florence, and my parents were determined to go sooner rather than later. “My family and I will be ready and delighted to welcome you at any time,” Marco had said.
Yet we could not go too soon—not only because of all there was to be done, but also because my mother and I must receive calls from the rest of the ladies in Genoa, who sought to congratulate us and give me their best wishes (and, of course, marriage advice).
Each of these visits was much the same: glasses of watered wine with a matron whom I scarcely knew, and who was usually a great deal older than me. They advised me in everything from running a kitchen to choosing the best kinds of cloth to choosing a wet nurse for my children. Almost without variation, they exclaimed over how beautiful I was, and how I was certain to make Signor Vespucci the happiest of men, their tones and expressions hinting at something dangerous, scandalous, something of which we were not to speak.
Of course, Elisabetta and her mother came to visit as well. Once the usual congratulations had been made, our mothers drew their chairs up next to each other and began to chat away happily, paying us no mind.
Elisabetta smiled thinly at me. “So it is as I said. You have got your Florentine husband.”
I smiled, in the open, honest way I had not allowed myself to when speaking to all the noblewomen of the city. “Yes,” I said. “Or will have, at least. The betrothal is not yet signed, of course, so it is not official, but…”
She waved away my words. “Oh, come, Simonetta, do not be so coy. It is official, for all intents and purposes. You have won.”
“Won?” I laughed. “What contest was I entered in without my knowledge?”
“The contest of being a woman, of course,” she said, and I was surprised to see a hint of a sneer around her lips. “It has ever been a competition between us women, from the moment that Lilith was cast out of paradise in favor of Eve. You have your beauty, of which no one ever ceases to speak, and now your fine Florentine husband with his Medici friends. You, Simonetta, have won it all.”
I was taken aback. “But I do not—”
“No need to know you are in a contest if you are always winning, is there? It is of no consequence. But mark my words, Simonetta Cattaneo—the Florentine women never forget what game it is they are playing, and they know the rules as well as they know their catechism. So beware.”
Anger flared in me. “And what do you know of Florentine women and their rules, Elisabetta Abruzzi? You have never left Genoa any more than I have. What is this nonsense you speak, of contests and competitions and winning? If there is any victory here, it is not of my doing.”
I paused, seeing Elisabetta’s face f
lush red. I bit my lip in consternation. “I am sorry,” I said. “I do not mean to speak harshly to you, my friend.”
“Nor I to you,” she said, the color still heightened in her cheeks. “It is just that … I will miss you. I am sad you are going. Truly.”
I reached out and took one of her hands, where it lay in her lap. “Come to my wedding,” I said. “I shall send you an invitation. You must come to Florence. It will be wonderful.”
She remained still for a moment, then withdrew her hand. “I will see if my parents agree,” she said softly.
I knew, right then, that it would be the last time I saw her.
* * *
Marco only remained in Genoa for two short weeks following his offer of marriage. Amidst all the congratulatory calls and visits, he came to take his leave of me one quiet afternoon. Now that we were betrothed, my parents left us alone in the receiving room with only Chiara for a chaperone.
“I am back to Florence at first light, to make everything ready for you,” he said, once we were both seated. “I am afraid we have spent more time apart than we have together in our acquaintance, and it grieves me, but soon we will have our whole lifetimes to be together.”
“Indeed,” I said, before adding boldly, “And even so I shall miss you.” The excitement of my parents, my neighbors, and everyone outside of this room meant little to me, I had found; what I wanted most was Marco’s company. If only, I sometimes felt late at night, to reassure myself that I was not making a mistake.
No, I thought as I smiled at him. This is no mistake.
“I shall miss you, Madonna, more than words can express—even Dante himself could not find the words!”
I laughed. “Now you go too far, signore. There were no words so far to seek that they could not fly to Dante’s pen.”
“Then I must apologize to Signor Alighieri, and hope that his spirit does not take offense,” he said. “Though as he was never in the same room with you, we will never truly know the extent to which he was able to capture beauty in his verse.”
The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence Page 2
