Marco’s face relaxed into a smile. “When you look at me so, I think I will give you anything you ask for,” he said. “Yes, if you wish it, we can have this Signor Botticelli paint your portrait. It would no doubt please Lorenzo, as well.”
Having thus exchanged a word with all our guests, we were shown to our place of honor at the head table with our hosts. Servants brought in the first course of what would be many: some greens and the rather bland Tuscan bread.
I was engaged in conversation by Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni, who was seated on my left, and who had heard that I enjoyed reading. I spent the first two courses happily chatting about books with her, and came away with a mental list of new titles that I was eager to read—all of which, she assured me, could be found in the library at the Medici palazzo. She told me that she would be presenting a volume of her own verse to me and Marco as a wedding gift, one I told her I was most honored and excited to receive.
As the main course—a tender and flavorful beef—was served, Marco claimed my attention again. “Are you enjoying our wedding feast, wife?” he asked.
Wife. The word startled me, in a way I had not been startled even when Lorenzo had addressed me by my new surname. I was Marco’s wife, and he was my husband. “I am, husband,” I said, testing out the word. “Everything has been as wonderful as I could have wanted.”
He grinned at me, waving over a servant to refill my glass of Sangiovese. “Good,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed me quickly on the lips, as if he could not restrain himself. I blushed as some of the guests noticed and let out bawdy whoops and whistles.
“I could not resist,” he said, voice low, his head inclined toward mine. “And, as you are now my wife, I need not resist ever again.” He kissed me once more, then leaned back.
My entire body seemed warm, flushed; and I felt as though I were short of breath. To be so unequivocally, unabashedly adored—why, it felt like more than I deserved. As if sensing my thoughts, Marco took my hand beneath the table and squeezed it, then began gently caressing my fingers with his.
As the pastries and dessert wine were served, Lorenzo rose from his seat. “I would like to sincerely welcome all of you to our villa, and to say thank you for attending the marriage feast of two dear friends of mine and of the Medici family.” He indicated Marco and I, seated beside him, and the crowd applauded us. “It is an honor to host the nuptials of such a beautiful and happy young couple, who will no doubt do much to enhance this Florence of ours with their joy and intelligence. I wish them nothing but the most sublime wedded bliss.” The guests cheered again. “There shall be music commencing shortly,” he finished, “and if you have not yet personally extended your congratulations to the bride and groom, I pray you do so at once, as no doubt they will be retiring soon—and I am sure no one can blame the groom for wishing to take such a beautiful bride to bed without delay.”
Everyone laughed and cheered at his words, and I felt myself blushing again. We rose from our seats, and the guests followed us into the next room, where musicians were assembled and began playing. I danced first with Marco, of course, then with Lorenzo, then with Giuliano, who whispered in my ear that I must let him take me away before my husband could claim me as his own. I laughed through my discomfort at his words, teasing him that though his offer was most tempting, I must decline. Botticelli, too, caught my eye more than once, and I glowed, knowing he would paint me soon.
Marco and I were pulled into conversation with a few more guests, whose names I still could not recall even upon being told a second time. I began to feel weary: weary of everyone’s eyes upon me, of dancing, of standing, of being charming, of fearing what would happen once Marco and I were alone.
As the couple to whom we had been speaking wandered away, Marco turned to look down at me. “What do you say, my darling?” he asked. “Shall we retire?”
My heartbeat tripled. “As you wish, husband.”
He took my hand again and tucked it into his arm. He led me across the room to the doorway and, as our guests noticed our direction, they began applauding, whistling, and calling out bits of rather explicit advice. I tried to smile, tried to laugh, take joy in their merriment, and judging by Marco’s approving glance, I succeeded.
I caught Clarice’s eye as we left the room, and only just remembered that she and I had scarcely been able to speak since arriving at the villa. She gave me a big smile and nodded encouragingly.
We left the noisy, crowded room behind us and climbed the stairs to our suite of rooms on the third floor. Marco left me at the door to my dressing room before moving on to his. “I shall see you in a few minutes,” he said softly.
I nodded, suddenly almost too embarrassed to look at him, and stepped into my dressing room. Chiara immediately rose from her mending upon seeing me. “Madonna,” she said, curtseying briefly. She stepped toward me and began unpinning my hair. I sighed with relief as the heavy pins and strands of pearls were removed. With my hair loose, Chiara unlaced my gown and helped me step out of it and my underdress, carefully folding them to be put away. Now wearing only my shift, I shivered.
Chiara noticed. “Are you well, Madonna?” she asked softly. “Are you ready?”
Again I nodded but could not speak.
A soft knock came at the door, and I started, but relaxed slightly when the door opened and my mother came in. “Ah, Simonetta,” she said. “Ready for the marriage bed, I see.” Her face glowed with pride.
I tried to smile back, but my face seemed frozen.
“Do not worry, my daughter,” she said. She crossed the room to me and patted my cheek. “All will be well. Remember, all you need do is please your husband, and you shall have a happy and blessed life together.”
“I shall try,” I said.
She embraced me briefly. “All will be well. I promise,” she whispered into my ear again. Then she withdrew, closing the door behind her.
There was no further way to delay. But did I want to, truly? Was it not better to have it over with?
Chiara followed me through the door into the adjoining bedchamber and drew back the covers for me. I obediently got into the bed and lay back, fanning my long hair about me.
“Is there anything else you need, Madonna?” Chiara asked me.
“No,” I managed, past my dry throat. “You are dismissed, Chiara.”
She curtsied again and left me without a word.
I lay alone in the semidarkness—Chiara had left a small branch of candles burning on the bedside table—and stared up at the canopy of the bed. I took several deep breaths, trying to calm my furiously beating heart.
Yet Marco’s soft knock on the door just moments later, from his own adjoining dressing room, made all such efforts moot. My breathing quickened again as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Simonetta,” he said, my name half spoken, half sighed.
“Si,” I said, finding my voice. “It is I, your wife.”
He slowly approached the bed, dressed only in a nightshirt. I could see the dark hair on his chest where the neckline dipped down into a V; could see the outline of his body beneath the thin linen.
“You are not afraid, are you, Simonetta?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to say no, that I was well, but I did not want to begin our time together as husband and wife with a lie. “Not afraid,” I said, “but perhaps a bit nervous.”
He smiled. “I can understand that, I think. But, as I told you before, my dearest, darling Simonetta, I will be gentle, and I will try to bring you joy.”
He got into the bed, sliding beneath the covers beside me. I willed myself not to shrink away as he took me in his arms. He kissed me, his lips parting mine as they had before, and I did my best to lose myself in the kiss. My breathing came quicker now, but for different reasons.
Marco began to kiss his way down my neck, and I gasped aloud. The heat within me rose to my skin, and I could feel beads of sweat beginning to form.
He groaned as we drew apart. “I cannot w
ait any longer, Simonetta,” he murmured. “You are too beautiful.” He shifted himself so that he was atop me, pulling up my shift, one hand insistently reaching between my legs to gently push them apart.
I tightened the muscles of my legs instinctively, then forced myself to yield to him and relaxed them. He lowered his hips onto mine, and I felt something large and hard pushing between my legs now. I forced myself to relax as he found the entry to my body and thrust himself inside me.
There was a sharp pain, as though something had torn within me, and I cried out, though my mother had told me to expect this.
“I am sorry,” Marco murmured. Then he began to move within me, and I clenched my teeth against the pain that still radiated up from that space within me, the space that he now occupied. He pushed farther and farther into me, and I bit down on my lip to stop myself from crying out—from the pain, from the weight of him, from the feeling of certainty that there must be something more I should be doing.
His breathing began to come faster, and as the pain faded he gave one last sharp thrust and cried out, a sound halfway between agony and ecstasy, his eyes closed. I felt him shudder within me, then he lay his head against my shoulder, spent.
We remained like that for a moment, Marco still inside me, and it felt almost pleasant to have him there, so close. As if he were a part of me. Then he lifted himself up, withdrew, and rolled over onto his back. “Oh, Simonetta,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
Tentatively I reached between my legs, and my fingers came away sticky with blood. This, too, my mother had prepared me for. I glanced back at Marco to see him watching me. “You are bleeding, yes?” he asked.
“Si.”
He smiled. “Ah, Simonetta.” He reached over and drew me into his arms. “You are mine,” he whispered into my ear. “Mine and only mine.”
After a few moments, I asked, “And did I … did I please you, husband?”
He chuckled. “Dio mio,” he said. “You have pleased me, indeed.” He studied my face, suddenly concerned. “I did not hurt you too much, did I?”
I cast my eyes down so he would not see the tears forming in them—though why I should cry, I did not know. “There was pain,” I confessed, “but I was prepared for it.”
“Oh, my Simonetta,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “I am sorry. But it is necessary. And soon it will not hurt.”
“I hope you are right,” I said. Almost immediately, he drifted off to sleep.
12
I was awoken at dawn by Marco stirring beside me. I wondered that he had not woken me sooner, unused as I was to having someone else in my bed. I opened my eyes to find him smiling at me. “Good morning, moglie,” he said.
I returned the smile, feeling warmth blossom in me anew at the word. “Good morning, marito.”
He took my face between his hands and kissed me, deeply. “We will not be expected downstairs for some time yet,” he said when he drew away. “Shall we make the most of our time?” His hand moved beneath my shift to caress my breast.
I wanted to refuse due to the very present soreness between my legs, as well as the punishing headache that had developed overnight—too much wine, perhaps? But my mother’s words about duty and pleasing my husband and God’s will chased themselves around my head. “I suppose we may as well,” I said, trying to make my voice light, flirtatious.
This time the act was less foreign to me. I had to bite my lip to stop from crying out in pain again when he entered me, but the pain was less sharp this time, just a lingering dull ache from the loss of my maidenhead. The pain subsided as he moved within me, and though I did not experience whatever pleasure it was that made him moan and sigh, nor was the experience entirely unpleasant.
Afterward, Marco dozed off again, but I found that I could not. My mind was busy with all of the things I had learned, and with beginning to accept all of the changes that were imminent in my life.
I was a wife. Marco was my husband, and never would we be parted as long as we should live. I would live in his house and be always at his side, to serve and please him. And possibly, last night or even just this very morning, we had made a child whom I would raise to make him proud.
Perhaps two hours later, Marco awoke again and sat up. “I could spend the rest of my life in bed with you,” he said, “but I suppose we must do our duty as guests and appear downstairs soon.”
“I think you are right,” I said.
He got out of the bed and stretched. “Did you sleep any more, my darling?” he asked. “We must journey back to Florence again today.”
“I did not,” I said. “Too much excitement, I fear.”
He smiled. “Let us pray that God grants us much more excitement and happiness in our life together.”
“Amen,” I said.
He leaned across the bed and kissed me. “I shall leave you to dress, then, and will go do the same. When you are ready, we shall go downstairs to break our fast.”
With that, he left, retreating back into the same dressing room from which he had emerged the night before.
I lay back against the pillows for a moment, stretching languidly. I felt as though now I could fall right back to sleep, and sleep the day away. Yet Marco was right: we must be gracious guests, especially after all the expense the Medici family had gone to on our behalf.
I got out of bed and padded into the maid’s room that adjoined the dressing room, rousing a still sleeping Chiara. “Mi scusi, Madonna!” she cried, tumbling out of bed. “I did not know what time—”
“Do not worry,” I interrupted her. “It is of no consequence. It is a strange day, I think. As soon as you are ready, I must dress.”
I wandered back into the dressing room and sat before the dressing table. My reflection looked wan, tired. It was indeed a strange day, preceded by a strange night. I studied myself carefully, wondering if becoming a married woman evoked some sort of change in my visage. Yet other than weariness, I looked the same as I always had.
Chiara bustled in, more apologies tumbling from her lips, which I waved aside. She helped me change into fresh underthings and then into a soft, simple country gown that would be appropriate for the morning and for the journey back to the city. She then braided my hair and pinned it up. Already it was becoming another hot Tuscan summer day.
I wondered, idly, if Signor Botticelli had also stayed the night. Perhaps he had, as a particular favorite of the Medici family? But why did it even matter? I shook away the thought, the image of Marco beaming at me as we said our marriage vows overtaking me. I smiled to myself, remembering.
Once I was ready, I stepped cautiously out into the hallway, only to find Marco already waiting there for me.
“Ah,” I said. “I did not mean to keep you, husband.”
He took my hand and kissed it chivalrously. “A man could wait forever for beauty such as yours, and consider himself lucky to do so.”
“I had best treasure such compliments now,” I teased, “for soon we shall be a disgruntled old married couple who do naught but disagree.”
I had thought to make him laugh, but his smiling brown eyes turned serious. “Never,” he said, with all the solemnity of one swearing a most sacred oath. “That shall never be us, my Simonetta. I promise.”
Even in the summer heat, I felt as though someone had brushed a cold finger down my spine. I shivered slightly, but I ignored it as I took Marco’s arm and let him lead me downstairs.
* * *
We found our parents already at table downstairs, as well as the Medici family. No Signor Botticelli, I noted, and I pushed away my nonsensical pang of disappointment. Everyone rose and applauded when they saw us.
“Sit, sit,” Lorenzo said, showing us to our seats beside his own. I sat directly across from Clarice, and she gave me a broad smile.
“I trust you both had a … pleasant evening?” Lorenzo asked, his polite tone belied by the wicked grin on his face.
“The most pleasant one I have yet known,” Marco said,
causing everyone to laugh pointedly and me to blush. I did not like to hear something so private mentioned in public, yet I knew I must get used to it.
Once we had broken our fast, Lorenzo invited us all to follow him outside for a tour of the grounds. The sun only served to sharpen my headache, but I did my best to pay it no mind. Lorenzo, Marco, and Giuliano walked on ahead through the extensive gardens, while Marco’s and my parents and Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni followed behind, exchanging chatter and gossip. Clarice slipped her arm through mine, and we brought up the rear.
“So?” Clarice murmured to me, when the rest of the party was out of earshot. “How did it go?”
I must have made a face, for she laughed softly. “Not that badly, surely?”
“It was not bad,” I said quickly. “Just … strange.”
She smiled. “I thought the same as a new bride. I am sure every woman does, the first few times. I can promise you it will get easier—and more enjoyable—with practice.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Practice?” I repeated. “I just … I do not know, Clarice. Marco told me I pleased him enormously, but I did not do anything, and I felt as though there was something I should be doing.”
“That is where the practice comes in,” Clarice said, her smile widening.
“But how am I to know—”
“Answer me this, Simonetta,” she interrupted. “Do you love your husband?”
“Of course,” I answered.
“There is no of course about it. Many women are not so fortunate as to love their husbands. But very well. You love him, and you find him handsome, yes?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“Then that is all you need. When he comes to your bed, do not think—quiet that active mind of yours. Instead, just let yourself feel the things he makes you feel, and your body will know how to respond. You will begin to sense the things he particularly likes, and, in turn, he—if he is a good lover—will sense what brings you the most pleasure.”
The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence Page 9
