Marco grimaced and shook his head. “No, thank you. I find I am not so hungry.”
“Indeed,” I said, unable to stop myself from smirking.
As soon as Giuliano had finished wolfing down his food, he rose. “Thank you again, Signora Vespucci, for opening your home to me, and for the meal.” He kissed my hand. “I trust I shall see you again soon, under … more pleasant circumstances.”
I smiled. “Indeed. It is all in the past, good signore.”
With that, he bowed and took his leave, no doubt anxious to be clear of the storm brewing between my husband and myself. Yet I would be damned if I would speak first.
It was a few moments before Marco spoke. Clearing his throat, he said, “Simonetta…”
“Yes?” I asked expectantly. “Do you have something to say to me, husband? I rather think you do. Or you should.” I laughed. “Yes, I can think of a whole host of things you should be saying to me right now.”
“Well … yes.” He looked away. “I am sorry.”
“Sorry for what, exactly, Marco?”
“Sorry that we came home in such a state, that we behaved so. That we disturbed your sleep.”
“Indeed?” I asked. “And what of the French whore you were with before returning home? Are you sorry for her as well?”
Marco’s face reddened. “I am sorry you had to hear that. Giuliano was drunk—obviously, we both were—and he did not realize what he was saying, nor in front of whom.”
“Oh, so that is what you are sorry for?” I said, my voice becoming louder, harder. “That I had to hear something so indelicate? That I found out you are an adulterer?” I barked out a laugh. “Yes, no doubt you are sorry that I know that now.”
“Simonetta,” he said. He reached for my hand where it lay on the table, but I angrily pulled it back. “I did not mean to hurt you. This is nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, is it not?” I asked.
“You do not understand,” he said, his voice low.
“You are right, I do not,” I said. “I do not understand at all. Am I not enough for you? Do I not please you enough? Apparently I do not.”
“That is not it at all, Simonetta,” Marco said. “I swear to you.”
“What is it, then?” I demanded.
“What do you expect me to say?” he burst out. “It began when you were ill. Giuliano would come to get me out of the house, and he took me to a house owned by a woman he knows. I met a courtesan there, and I took my pleasure as I saw fit. What was I to do? You were ill. A man has needs, Simonetta.”
“Oh, indeed,” I said scornfully. “Are men no better than animals, then? That when your wife, whom you profess to love, is ill at home you must go out and fuck the first harlot who—”
“How dare you speak to me so!” Marco said, pounding his fist on the table. “I will not tolerate it!”
“And I am expected to tolerate you going out to visit your whore, and expected to welcome you back into my bed when you return?”
“Yes!” he all but shouted. “Because you are my wife and that is the way of the world. I am a man and the master of this household and I shall do as I see fit.”
Silence fell over the room. I was certain the servants were listening just beyond the doors, but I could not bring myself to care. I pushed my chair away from the table and rose, determined not to let Marco see that I was trembling—with fury, with despair, with sadness, with jealousy.
“As you wish,” I said. “You are an interesting man, Marco Vespucci. The most beautiful woman in Florence is not enough for you. What am I to make of that?”
I turned and stormed from the room before he could reply. In my haste to leave, I almost knocked over Marco’s mother in the hallway just outside. “Simonetta!” she cried, startled. “I heard yelling—whatever is the matter?”
“Ask your son,” I said curtly, stalking past her.
24
Because I could not think where else to go, I barricaded myself in my chambers again. Let Marco leave the house again, or stay, for all I cared. It would be some time before he would find himself back in my bedroom again, let alone in my bed.
The horrible part was I knew that he was right. This was the way of the world. Men went out and took their pleasure where they found it, and we wives were expected to look the other way, to never notice nor speak of it, and remain at their beck and call as though nothing had happened. As though nothing had changed.
I remembered, with a sickening twist of guilt, the way I had pitied Clarice that night when her husband had invited his mistress to dinner. The way I felt sorry for her, angry on her behalf yet confident in the knowledge that what was happening to her would never happen to me. She had called me a fool that day, and she had been right.
What, then, is beauty good for, if it cannot protect me from feeling like this? I wondered. What good is being desired by every man who sets eyes on me when even my own husband cannot remain faithful? What does this cursed beauty mean? What has it brought me in my life other than despair?
Suddenly I remembered what had haunted my thoughts all the day before, in that other life when I was a different woman from the one I was now.
Maestro Botticelli wanted me to help him. He had had a vision, he said, of a great work of art, with me at its center.
This, then, was my answer. This was what beauty was good for. To create a masterpiece.
A slow smile slid across my lips. I would do it. I would pose for him, naked as the day I was born. If Marco felt no guilt for fornicating with a whore, then why should I feel any guilt for a far lesser infraction?
I would not even give him the chance to object. I would simply do it; I would not hide my actions from him nor volunteer any information. He might never know. And if he did, well, was that not the way of the world? That beautiful women should inspire great artists?
I found a bit of parchment in my dressing room and penned a simple note: I will do it. Just tell me when we begin. I signed it simply Simonetta, and bade Chiara take it to Maestro Botticelli’s workshop. She cast me a quizzical look, but she did as she was told.
To my surprise and pleasure, Chiara returned almost immediately, bearing a sealed reply. I took it and thanked her; she nodded and left without a word.
I eagerly opened the letter and found that it was just as brief as my own message had been: Grazie mille, Simonetta. I am eternally in your debt. Come tomorrow afternoon, and we shall begin.
It was signed just as I had signed mine, with simply his Christian name: Sandro.
I clutched the parchment to my chest, feeling a wide smile stretch across my face and a curious, wild joy bubble up within me. I sensed that when I stepped into his workshop the next day, I would be passing a point from which there could be no return. And yet I did not care. More than that: I would welcome it.
* * *
Marco wisely slept in one of the extra bedrooms again that night, and I did not even see him the next morning. Just as well. I had nothing to say to him at the moment. I knew that soon I would need to find a way to put this behind me, a way to move forward with our marriage, a way to continue to be a wife to him in every sense of the word. But I could not and would not do it yet.
At just before one o’clock, I set out for Maestro Botticelli’s workshop. I casually told Chiara where I was going, though no doubt she knew. She seemed prepared to keep my venture a secret without being told to do so, yet I did not care. Let her tell Marco. Let there be no secrets in our marriage.
As I approached, though, I found myself feeling a nervousness I thought I’d banished. In my defiance and rebellion and determination to do what I wanted to do, I had let the details of this venture become hazy in my mind. In a manner of moments, I would be removing all of my clothes in front of a man who was not my husband. A man who was a friend—but still. It was contrary to everything I had been taught, to how I had been raised. To the strictures of the Church and of society.
Yet I wanted to do it anyway, and that was what fr
ightened me most. I wanted to, even though and perhaps because it scared me, and now I must learn if I could go through with it.
I hesitated as I reached the door, and I knocked, though I knew Maestro Botticelli was expecting me. In those moments after knocking I became vividly aware that, if I so chose, I could leave now. This would be my last chance.
I remained where I was until he opened the door.
His eyes widened upon seeing me, as though he was surprised, as though he hadn’t been expecting me. “Simonetta,” he breathed, and my name was a greeting and a prayer and an invocation.
“Maestro Botticelli,” I said, stepping inside. Yet even as I spoke I realized that if I was to go through with this, there could be no more formalities between us. “Sandro,” I amended.
The workshop was even more littered with canvases and sketches and brushes than it had been when I was here before—no doubt a sign of the maestro’s popularity. He had lit a fire in the grate, perhaps unnecessary for what was a warm autumn day, yet I could see that he would need the light: lengths of cloth had been pinned over the windows so that no passersby would be able to see in. This, no doubt, was to preserve my modesty. And the room was empty of any other living soul. It was, I realized, the first time he and I had been truly alone together.
I turned back to face him, and he must have read the question in my eyes. “I dismissed my assistants for the rest of the day,” he said, locking the door behind me. “As promised. I am asking enough of you as is; there is no call to have you disrobe before other men as well.”
“I thank you for that,” I said. I wondered if my nervousness could be heard in my voice.
“Simonetta,” he said softly, stepping close to me and placing his hands on my shoulders. “You are certain, si? You do not have to do this. If you have changed your mind…”
Drawing in a deep breath, I met his eyes and shook my head. “I have not changed my mind. I want to do it.”
He smiled, relieved. “Very well. I cannot thank you enough, Simonetta. Truly.”
He led me over to the center of the room, where an overturned wooden box, covered with a length of cloth, had been placed. The worktables and benches had, I saw, been shoved back to make space. “This is where I will have you stand, if that is agreeable,” he said, gesturing to the box. “The light will be right, and I will have you in the center of my vision. Let me know if you get cold, and I can build up the fire.”
So the fire served a dual purpose. I was surprised by his thoughtfulness, though I knew I should not be.
I knew, of course, that Sandro lived above his studio, yet at just that moment I found myself very conscious that his bed was only just upstairs. I was about to undress, and so very close to his own intimate space.
He studied me again for a moment. “We shall wait until you are ready,” he said. “There is no need to rush. We shall not be disturbed all afternoon; I have seen to it.”
I took one more deep, shuddering breath, and bent down to remove my shoes. “No,” I said. “We can begin now. I am ready.”
“Very well,” Sandro said, situating a chair a few paces away from my pedestal—or so I had begun to think of it—fetching his sketchbook from one of the tables.
I kicked my shoes beneath a nearby chair and removed my cloak, draping it over the back of the same chair. I had taken care to keep myself shrouded in my cloak on my way here, despite the warmth of the day; I had purposely worn only a simple gown and shift that I would be able to remove myself; not anything I could be seen wearing in public. There was no lady’s maid to help me, and I would not ask Sandro to help me undress.
“Wait,” Sandro said, standing beside his chair. “If you could—would you unbind your hair?”
My throat was dry as I tried to respond. “You mean … leave it loose?”
“Yes,” he said. “If you do not mind.”
My hands reached up and fumbled for the pins. “Whatever you wish, maestro.” I found the courage to flash him a smile, and his answering smile warmed me and gave me the courage to proceed.
Once released from its pins, my wavy, yellow-gold hair tumbled down my back, ending just below my knees. I shook my head once, letting the front strands fall over my shoulders and frame my face.
“Perfetto,” he murmured. His face flushed slightly as he nodded at my dress. “Do you need … that is, should I…?”
“No,” I cut him off. “No. I shall do it myself.”
Slowly, looking away from him, I reached back and unlaced my dress, draping it over the back of the same chair as my cloak. I slid my shift down my shoulders and pushed it down to my feet. I stepped out of it and dropped it next to my other things before stepping up onto the overturned box. The air of the room felt chilled against my flushed, bare skin, and I closed my eyes for a moment. Yet I knew I could not continue to look away. I must do this with my whole heart. Boldly, I looked up and let my eyes find his.
His mouth was open partway as he beheld me and, in that moment—just for that moment—he was naught but a man looking on a woman: his eyes took in my shoulders; my round, firm breasts; my waist and belly and hips; the thatch of pale hair between my legs; my thighs and knees and calves. Every inch of me.
“Simonetta,” he breathed, and the reverence I heard in his voice made me flush deeper.
I lifted my chin haughtily, about to ask him whether he meant to gape at me or to sketch, and in that instant he became wholly the artist again. “Si, si,” he said excitedly, though his voice was low. “Just so. Hold that position.” With that, he bent his head over his paper and began to sketch.
This, now, was familiar to me: holding a pose, sinking into time and letting it envelop me so that he may capture me and, in so doing, capture time itself. Never again would I be just as I was at this moment, yet it would be one that would be preserved through the alchemy of Sandro’s hand and eye and pencil.
But it was foreign as well. I had expected it would be so, even as I hoped that soon it would come to feel the same, and I would forget entirely that I was naked.
Yet I could not. I was aware of every inch of my bare self, on display for Sandro to see and study; could feel each breath—his and mine—as it stirred the air around me, causing the strands of my hair to move ever so slightly, whispering against my skin. And I could feel his eyes on me like a physical touch, could feel every place that they studied as though they were hot coals brushing against my skin. His gaze was a caress, one of heat and light and warmth on a body which was always hidden away from the world; and far from feeling exposed, as I had been anticipating, I felt free and strong and uninhibited. I leaned into his gaze as one would lean into a lover’s embrace.
Every so often he would look up and meet my eyes, and neither of us would look away for a long moment. Then he would return to his sketching, his eyes continuing their beautiful dance over my body.
My heartbeat and breath began to quicken. Despite my initial chill as I had disrobed, the room now felt quite warm, almost too much so. Yet I did not speak, did not move, could not have if I wanted to. I did not want to break this spell, did not want this delicious enchantment to end. Did not want to go back to hiding myself from him, now that he had seen all of me, body and soul.
I could not have said how long it was before Sandro rose from his chair. “We should stop here for today, perhaps,” he said gently.
I blinked twice, like one awakening from a deep sleep. “Very well,” I said, wondering if he could hear the reluctance in my voice, and what he made of it if he did.
“Do you need any help dressing?”
In my imagination, I said that yes, I did, and just the thought of his hands on my body was almost too much to bear. Could that simple act be wrong after the intimacy of what had just occurred? “No,” I said aloud, resisting the temptation. “I … I believe I can manage on my own.”
“As you wish,” he said. He stepped closer, picked up my shift off of the chair, and handed it to me. I shivered as his fingers brushed mine.
I stepped into my shift quickly, suddenly as eager to cover myself as I had been reluctant to do so a moment ago. I pulled on my dress as well, then donned my shoes, and when I was finished I looked up to find Sandro studying me as though he had never stopped.
The air between us felt heavy, laden with so very many words that we could not say, that we wanted to say but knew we must not.
It was he who looked away first, clearing his throat and running a hand through his tousled blond hair. “And are you … would you be able to return the day after tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Very good. I…” he faced me again. “I cannot say how long this will take, Simonetta. To fully execute the vision that I have. It may take some time, and with these other commissions—”
“It is of no matter,” I said, cutting him off. “I shall be here as long as you need me.”
“I think that I shall always need you,” he said softly.
I swayed slightly where I was standing, wanting to step into his arms, to fall against him.
He walked me to the door, took my hand, and kissed it soundlessly. His lips were like a brand against my skin, as though he was marking me for his own.
25
That evening Marco sent word that he was to dine with Lorenzo and some other dignitaries in the government. I know he had been hoping to be appointed to a government post, and so naturally he would seize this opportunity. It was just as well: I still had no interest in speaking to him. I do not know what time he returned, as I had already gone to bed. He was just leaving the following morning when I went downstairs to break my fast.
“I hope that we may dine together this evening,” he said, kissing my cheek.
“As you wish,” I said indifferently.
I made sure that dinner was ready when he arrived home, and sat through an hour of him telling me of his engagement the night before, though I plainly did not care. Later that night he returned to our bedchamber, though he did not attempt to exert his husbandly privilege, for which I was glad.
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